The Dark Prince of Manhattan
by Catheryne
Summary: Their lives were a real world fairy tale. The Dark Prince was a monster to be feared. The White Knight was an ideal. And she was a sleeping princess. CB
1. Chapter 1

**The Dark Prince of Manhattan**

**Summary: **Their lives were a real world fairy tale. The Dark Prince was a monster to be feared. The White Knight was an ideal. And she was a sleeping princess.

**AN: **Another one of my experiments. It will have elements of good old fairy tale, a little (really very little) touch of fantastic realism and a healthy blend of romance, fluff and drama, all in Gossip Girl style. PS I was planning to do a full blown science fantasy, in the likes of what I majored in, but I thought I'd take it lightly first.

**Prologue **

"Once upon a time, there lived the most beautiful princess in the world," Harold Waldorf's voice drowned out the white noise.

The little girl in the bed glanced at the small sound machine and frowned. Her mother had insisted on it, so that the white noise could block out the sirens and honks from the street. Even the best neighborhoods, her mother had mentioned as she installed the small machine, had very bad noise that could seep through little girls' windows and wake them up from a solid sleep.

"Daddy, turn it off."

Harold glanced at the machine, then reached for it and clicked the switch. He held up a finger to his lips. "Only for a minute," he told his princess.

And her mother was right. Without the sound machine Blair could hear the ambulance and the fire trucks. Thoughts of the world outside crept through the open windows.

But her daddy was there, and she wanted to hear his story. "Tell it, daddy. Tell me about the princess."

"Well," Harold told her, "as I said, she was the most beautiful princess in the world."

"The whole wide world?" Blair clarified, her eyes wide open. When her father told her a bedtime story, it did the exact opposite of what bedtime stories intended. Blair was more awake, more alive, more excited to find out.

"The absolute whole wide world."

And Blair just said, "Wow." And she gave her father a brilliant smile. "Did she look like me, daddy? Did she have dark hair and dark eyes too?" Blair crinkled her nose. "Or did she have nice blonde hair like Serena?"

"Silly goose," Harold replied. "Didn't you know the most beautiful princess in the world looked exactly like you?"

"Really, daddy?"

"Cross my heart," said her father. Harold tapped her nose with a finger. "Now will you let me tell you the story?"

But Blair asked another question, "Did she live in a palace?"

"High above the clouds."

So she nodded. "Okay, daddy. You can tell the story."

"Thank you, your highness."

Blair grinned, then settled in the bed under her comfortable blankets as she listened to her daddy. She turned her head, just as her daddy's voice droned on.

"Everyone loved the princess, and all the other maidens in the land wanted to be just like there. But one day, something went very wrong."

She could see the twinkle through the darkness, of something up there, a flash of white light that blinked on and off.

"There's someone up there," she said with a yawn, pointing in the distance.

Harold cleared his throat, then said with a grin, "You're sleepy, princess."

"You didn't finish the story."

"We'll continue tomorrow," he promised her.

She was sleepy, and her eyes were crossing and she could see double her daddy now. But something had been very wrong, and she wanted to know what it was. "What went wrong, daddy?"

"The princess went to sleep, a very deep sleep. Only her true love could wake her up."

Blair took deep breaths as she drifted off. Her father stood up and switched back on her white noise, and all the sounds of the street switched off like magic. She smiled. "The White Knight," she whispered.

**Part 1**

Everyone in Manhattan knew that up there beyond the clouds, up in a loft so high that from that perch one could not see the ground, way above all the ordinary rich and beautiful, there lived the Dark Prince. No one truly ever saw him, but he was a legend.

No, that was inaccurate. Certainly there were those who had seen him.

After all, any Dark Prince would have servants—possibly slaves. And he would have those who thought of themselves as friends. Yet anyone who thought themselves lucky enough to be his friend would never speak freely about the man, so treasured they held the relationship with the family.

And all the servants—they feared the father.

There were no siblings to speak for him. After all, some spoke of the Dark Prince's blood being so toxic it had killed his own mother.

In some circles, people spoke in hushed tones of the Dark Prince, and words had been woven and spun and threaded to one inevitable illustration. In the underground clubs of Brooklyn, there was a painting that circulated by the wife of a man named Humphrey. It was a picture tale of a vision of the Dark Prince, taken from the whispers about the man.

The painting depicted a dark monster looming in the shadows; a sparkling crown adorned its black head. He emerged from smoke and looked down through the glass walls of the unseen top floor of The Palace. It was the Dark Prince, in full glory, a beast upon a beast, the ruler of the Upper East.

It was satire, and it was unfunny. The most powerful families bent to his will were illustrated as caricatures that kowtowed at the Prince's feet.

Rockefeller. Wydham. Forbes. Trump. Kennedy. Bloomberg.

The Vanderbilts.

It came as no surprise then to learn—broadcast in the news by a cautious anchorwoman—that the painter had been found dead along the Hudson.

The only thing that saved the woman's family was the documents of divorce that the Rufus Humphrey so largely showcased on the screen. In his eyes was a simple message, and even without words he spoke volumes.

There is no war with the Basses. No more.

~o~o~o~o~

Blair held apart the curtains of her bedroom window. From above the clouds she noticed flashes of red and green laser lights, and sometimes they pierced right through he vapor. Even from her penthouse apartment she had no view of the top of The Palace. However, from what she could make out, they must be some type of party happening there.

She wished her father and her mother would let her go. Just once.

She had received invitations to the affairs there more than once. After all, she was Blair Waldorf—Queen B of Constance Billiard. Even the Dark Prince would be curious.

Behind her, her maid fastened the buttons on the back of her dress.

"It must be the most amazing event of the year, Dorota!" she mourned again.

Dorota peered over her shoulders, then grunted disapprovingly at the rapid, hypnotic circular movement of the lights. "That," the maid opined, "does not suit you, Miss Blair."

Blair rolled her eyes.

"You look beautiful, Miss Blair."

She was in a frothy white creation, whipped up by her mother. It was an Eleanor Original, yet Blair could somehow remember seeing a picture of the very dress in one of her pre-K fairy tale books. There was nothing original about taking the design from the page where it says, 'Happily ever after.'

Her mother stepped into the room and smiled at the sight of her daughter. "Just ten pounds to go, darling."

Blair's chest tightened, but she managed a grateful smile. That was, from Eleanor Waldorf, a great compliment. Dorota moved away from her, and Eleanor took her place behind Blair. Eleanor snorted at the obvious sight of an event in The Palace.

Eleanor placed her hands on her arms and turned her to face the mirror, and away from the window. "This is very you," Eleanor declared.

And when she looked at her reflection in the mirror, Blair had to admit that she did look every inch the Queen. "You're right," she murmured, proud of the picture perfect image of herself that she saw. Blair twirled a lock of hair around her fingers, then allowed it to spring free in curled abandon. "This is who I am."

Dorota released a relieved breath behind her. Blair allowed her mother to pull her in the direction of the window on the other side of the room, which faced Park Avenue. From the penthouse they could see the line of luxury towncars that were making its way to the Archibald townhouse.

"That is the event that will lock your place at the top of this Society."

But she had been dating Nate Archibald for years, had been coming as his girlfriend to all these events for years. "It's just another event, mom."

Blair turned to face her mother and noticed the sparkle in Eleanor's eyes. Eleanor flashed a tube of lipstick in front of her, then placed it inside Blair's pocket. "Trust me. Tonight is what fairy tales are made of."

Dorota peered down at the street, then straightened. "Miss Blair, the Chariot is here."

Blair's eyebrows rose. Nate usually took the towncar to pick her up for their dates. The Chariot was too boastful, too rich, he said, for his taste. He was the Soho type, and Nate certainly never used the Chariot in Soho. Blair's eyes narrowed.

"The Chariot!" Eleanor exclaimed, impressed. "He's pulling all the stops." Funny how to her mother all the stops meant Nate's borrowing his mother's stretch limo for a date. "And it's no less than what my daughter deserves." Eleanor kissed Blair's cheeks. "Have fun tonight."

Blair nodded, then looked at her reflection once more. She was still every inch the Queen, albeit—after her talk with her mother—ten pounds heavier in all the places that showed.

"Where's dad? I want to show him my dress."

Eleanor dismissed her with a wave. "Your father is at The Palace," she informed Blair. "You know his clients are crawling all over that place."

Blair glanced out the other window again, this time in wonder. Where was her father now? Did her father ever see the Dark Prince?

What was it like in The Palace?

Maybe tonight, she would ask him to tell her a story.

tbc

What do you think?


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **I want you to know how grateful I am for your support. Thank you.

**Part 2**

The white stretch limousine, the Chariot, stopped in front of the building that Blair Waldorf occupied. At the sight of the regal vehicle Eleanor Waldorf rushed her young daughter down the flight of steps and into the elevator. They were minutes after Dorota, late enough not to be considered overeager and just early enough not to be labeled tardy.

The young man who stepped out of the Chariot was handsome. He fixed his black silk bowtie and looked at his reflection in the mirror. When he straightened to his full height, a portion of his hair flopped over his forehead and across his eyes.

When he brushed the hair away, Blair's maid appeared in front of him, her hands clasped together. "You look like a White Knight, Mr Nate."

"Dorota!" he greeted in surprise. "I didn't see you there."

Dorota shook her head; her eyebrows furrowed. "I'm always silent, Mr Nate. I should always be quiet," she added. "And you always look so handsome."

"Do I, Dorota?" He smiled. The White Knight, of course, knew how much that would delight the woman in front of him. But then, one of the first things he learned over the course of his courtship of Blair Waldorf was that the way to the Blair's heart was through Dorota. "Is my princess ready and waiting?"

"Mr Nate, Miss Blair is queen," Dorota lectured. "Not less than queen. Definitely no princess," added Dorota with a look of disgust on her face. Her voice dropped. "You be careful. You know how she is."

"I'll be careful, Dorota. Thank you."

At his words the maid flushed. He always had such effect, no matter how much Dorota tried not to be obvious. Certainly, as built up as he had become in the media, everyone who tuned in to news reports about Nate Archibald and the dynasty that was the Vanderbilts would put him up on a pedestal.

Deserved or not.

The doormen flung the gilded doors of the building open. Nate held his breath. The darkened roofed entryway flooded with light. On cue. Eleanor stepped outside with outstretched arms. Nate bowed in greeting, and Blair mother cooed, "Such a gentleman." Eleanor turned to Blair and said, "Such a gentleman, Blair."

"Yes, mom," Blair allowed. "I know he's a gentleman." Nate stepped forward and kissed Eleanor's hand, then proceeded to Blair. Blair smiled up at her boyfriend, then raised her face up to him to offer a kiss. Nate kissed the corner of her lips. Blair's lips parted in surprise, but did not protest. She told her mother, "That's why I'm dating him."

They settled into the comfortable seats at the back of the Chariot, and Nate turned to her and said, "So you're dating me because I'm a gentleman. That's interesting."

"Well obviously there are other things about you," Blair pointed out.

"Like what?" he prodded, the White Knight's dreamy blue eyes sparkling.

She started to answer, then cocked her head to the side. Blair opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

"Yes?"

She shook her head, wide-eyed. And then she let out a short, disbelieving chuckle. "I've gone blank."

But her White Knight was in love with her. Everyone knew it. And everyone only awaited the news that was sure to come in a few months time. If they were lucky, maybe the invitation.

It was a tradition after all. The Vanderbilts always married right out of graduation. They announced it with aplomb, in the grandest, largest, most spectacular party in the Upper East Side. Together with either the first business handed down to the Vanderbilt, or an announcement of which political steps he would follow after—the next Vanderbilt heir took a wife.

Blair should grow out her hair, maybe have it straightened too.

Very soon, she was going to have a nice portrait taken. She was, after all, a sure bet to be First Lady.

Because the White Knight and the Queen B were going to end up together. Everyone in Constance knew it. Everyone in St Jude's knew it. Soon, everyone in Manhattan would know it too.

That is, if Mr and Mrs Archibald had their way.

There was even a Vanderbilt ring sitting in Nate's sock drawer waiting to land on Blair Waldorf's finger.

"That's alright," Nate answered, pulling her up close to him and tilting her chin up so he could look into her eyes. "Before the end of the night you would remember exactly why."

Her eyes sparkled. Then again, they always did. After all, she was a queen. She shone and twinkled and sparkled more than all the diamonds in the jewelry boxes of Manhattan's elite. "This sounds like a promising night."

"Believe me. It is," Nate swore to her.

The Archibald townhouse was lit up like a firefly nest. Every moment of the party had been planned. When Nate stepped out of the Chariot and held out his hand to Blair, camera bulbs flashed like frenzy. Nate Archibald ruled the Upper East Side of glitz and glamour, down there where there was light. It was so bright, and Blair Waldorf sparkled in the glory of it all.

Nate pulled her up to his side, then stopped in the middle of the walkway with his arm around her waist. Blair smiled then looked to the left. Blinding flash. She looked to the front. Shocking white. And then she looked to her right. Blank, blank, light.

"Alright. Enough."

"Thank you," Blair murmured graciously, and allowed Nate to pull her along to enter the house.

"You'll get used to it," Nate advised.

And she nodded. "Although this has always been more Serena's cup of tea."

"You were made for the limelight," he told her.

She was made for this. Her mother told her so, when Eleanor pulled her from the window that looked over the Palace and the gloomy darkness up above, with the haunting, piercing lights, and turned her to the vivid whiteness of the Archibald's.

The Queen B was always made to rule with her iron fist, and a Vanderbilt could give her all of New York City.

That was, of course, as long as the Dark Prince allowed.

Nate scanned the crowd for his grandfather and found him nowhere. Where else would the Vanderbilt patriarch be, on this day of all days?

There was a story, told in hushed whisper in the Archibald home. At times Nate would happen upon a conversation among his parents and his grandfather, and they were pieces of the puzzle that began when he first heard the chauffeur mention the Bass name to the maids. It was a secret so prized that the maids tried to convince him that he had heard wrong.

There was a story, and now that he was eighteen it was rather believable.

After all, it was the day he turned eighteen, and his grandfather was in another young man's celebration, praying homage in the high floors of the Palace, making sure that Bart Bass found him among the guests.

There was a rumor, in the lower reaches of Manhattan—a rumor that reached Brooklyn and told to him by an interesting young woman who hung around St Jude's—that Bass money funded every Vanderbilt campaign, and put the Vanderbilts in power.

Unfounded, Nate had chosen to believe.

But he had been bundled and rushed to the top of the Palace far too many times at a child, to play with a spoiled hotheaded little boy.

"Nathaniel," his mother greeted. Anne Archibald, elegant and beautiful in her long gown and gloves, kissed his date on both her cheeks. "We're about to sit down for dinner."

Nate's face cleared, then he cleared his throat and excused himself, as expected. Every move was measured and planned, and at this point he needed to run to his room and take the most precious item he had in his possession.

Nate opened his sock drawer and took out the ring. The diamond was insane. Sitting on his mother's finger, it has looked preposterous. On Blair's finger it would look ridiculous.

But it was the Vanderbilt ring and it was made to astound.

He drew a deep breath, then blew out the air.

Nate heard the series of beeps, then turned around and saw the videophone light blink. And then a dark, shadowed figure took form on the plasma screen.

What Nate could clearly see was the wild party happening behind the darkened figure. He shook his head. He could barely imagine his grandfather there, or all the other heads of families who were sure to be present. Of course, the patriarchs who paid tribute to the Dark Prince on his special day were likely not with the young man, but were instead huddled inside a room with Big Bad Bart.

"You're not here," commented the voice from the surrounding speakers.

Nate grinned. He had gotten used to the sheer arrogance that was the Dark Prince of Manhattan. "I have my own party happening here."

"Please, Nathaniel, what ball can your mother throw that can compete with this?"

The Dark Prince activated the software installed in his videophone, and Nate was treated to a sight of drunken foreign princes and magnate's children—billionaires and trillionaires in their own right—stumbling across the floor with bottles clutched in hand, to heiresses and princesses gyrating against gilded poles that Chuck Bass had specially installed for the occasion.

"As a matter of fact, I am getting engaged today. This is the most that my mother has spent on a party."

"Show me," commanded the Dark Prince.

And even though they had built up a tentative friendship (which Nate suspected was the closest relationship the other young man ever had with any other person in his life) Nate heeded the command within an instant. Nate activated the Looking Glass software, and the plasma screen faded to a slow panning view of the ballroom. Nate watched closely and saw the guests, smiled a little as he spied Blair's best friend among the women below. Serena wore a low-cut bright blue gown, and more of her cleavage showed as she threw her head back in laughter as she talked to one of his classmates, Daniel Humphrey. And then the panning sight passed by Serena's brother, then landed on Blair Waldorf as she scanned the crowd with her chin held up high.

Nate turned off the program, and he saw that Chuck had leaned forward and exposed the angles of his face to the light as he watched intently.

"Beautiful people," Chuck murmured with a slight smile on his face.

"Of course. Foreign princes and Moroccan heiresses are not the only pretty people in the world."

"Someone in particular looks delicious." Chuck smirked. "One of these days, I might just attend one of your affairs."

"The blonde? I know you like blondes," Nate offered. "I can set something up for you."

Chuck shook his head. Nate pressed the blue button on the control. A small screen appeared on the bottom right corner of the screen, with the Dark Prince shown looking in interest at his screen as Nate projected the view of the ball. Chuck's finger went to the lens, highlighting a specific point on the screen.

Nate blanched.

"Her," pronounced the Dark Prince.

Nate stared at the screen as the face that the Dark Prince chose grew larger as the rest of the screen was cropped.

"I want her, Archibald. Get me her."

Nate looked at Chuck in disbelief. Then he sputtered, "No."

Nate watched as the Dark Prince's face grew dark with the shock that his answer provided. Chuck appeared astounded, and then his expression grew dark. Chuck drew back and burrowed again in the darkened shadow of his seat. "No?" Chuck whispered.

"No!"

"Why not?"

Nate held up the ring between his fingers. "I'm getting engaged today."

"Ah. To her."

"Yes!" Nate exclaimed. "Blair Waldorf."

The Dark Prince shook his head. "But I want her."

"Well you can't have her."

Chuck scoffed, as if the very idea was preposterous. Nate locked his jaw, then said, "If you'll excuse me." Without waiting for a response, he turned off the videophone. He felt a cold finger creep down his spine at the very action. His parents would kill him. His grandfather would have a heart attack.

Nate rushed down the stairs, noisily enough to get the attention of everyone in the ballroom. He stopped midway down the flight of stairs, then assessed the crowd below. In his mother's plans, he was supposed to stop in front of Blair, bring her to the center of the ballroom and wait for her pick of song. And then, Nate should kneel.

He saw his father took his phone from his pocket. The Captain looked up at him with a frown, then turned to search for Blair in the crowd.

The Dark Prince worked fast.

Nate's lips thinned.

"Blair!" he yelled from the stairs.

Blair Waldorf craned her neck and found him. She threw him a puzzled smile at the crude call.

Howard started to make his way towards Anne.

And Anne could put a stop to the entire thing.

Nate held out the ring, the sparkling, ostentatious Vanderbilt ring. Blair gasped, so did the crowd. "Blair Waldorf, will you marry me?"

The corner of her lips curved. "What?"

"Let's get married," he called out.

Blair looked around her, at the swooning or jealous young population of the Upper East Side. This was it. This was what she was meant for. Nate knew she knew it. When she looked back up at him, his heart tripped. She answered, "I don't know, Nate."

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: ** My simple wish today—to know what you thought of this.

**Part 3**

Above all else, Blair Waldorf wanted happiness.

As a child she dreamed of it. On those days when her mother and her father took her by the hand and led her to the park, Blair daydreamed that the ducks she fed were pretty creatures in the moat, and that the Upper East Side was her kingdom. It was easy for a little girl. Blair Waldorf was pretty, they all said, and when she wanted a crown, her mother bought her a headband full of threaded Swarovski and she could pretend it was a tiara.

There was a line of horse-drawn carriages in the entrance that her parents used. In Blair Waldorf's dreamy imagination they were grander and shinier, and the carriage drivers took one elegant uniforms. When the driver called out to them to offer their services, she imagined they were actually bowing to them, because if she was the queen she would be happy.

She threw bread crumbs to the water and watched the sucks flock around the food, and she felt every inch the benevolent benefactor.

She held her head up high, even when she was three fourths the size of everyone around her.

When Dorota fussed over her, and her mother dressed her in the best outfits a child could possibly have, then her father lifted her up and tossed her up to the sky, Blair was happy.

Sometimes up there is the air she threw her head back and looked up at the clouds. Sometimes the clouds parted and let her peek at the top half of The Palace.

Someday she would go there and look down at all of Manhattan. After all, that was the best perch for a queen.

The years in between that childhood and her adolescence were described as kind. By everyone else's standards. But Blair Waldorf was always meant for so much more. She knew it, even while everyone else believed that she was at the peak. Above all else, she wanted happiness.

As an adolescent she searched for it.

Her mother thought happiness could be achieved by becoming beautiful, and so Blair was draped in all her best creations from the day she turned thirteen. Her father gave her happiness by giving her all she wanted, and had slowly been drawn more and more to clients so big and famous that the Waldorf name became renowned in business legal representation. One day, when Harold needed to miss a play that Blair starred in, he told her that he was going to The Palace.

At fourteen years old, her lips curved—no disappointment on her face.

Her father was going to The Palace. The night her father came home, Blair was still wide awake. And she asked her father to tell her a story.

"Once upon a time, there was the most beautiful princess in the world," Harold said to his fascinated daughter. "And she was a curious princess—very curious that it always got her into trouble."

But her father did not start fairy tales so darkly, with an overcoat of warning in his voice. He did now, and it troubled her.

"In the kingdom where the princess lived, there was a mountain—a dark one—big and haunting and towering over all the land."

She held her breath, looking wide-eyed out the window and seeing nothing but darkness. Blair curled to her side while her father continued, then looked up at the sky where there was only a blanket of black.

"At the top of the mountain there is a cave, and all the mountain dwellers down the incline told the tale of treasures in the cave."

Blair's lips parted in awe, then she whispered, "What kind of treasures, daddy?"

"All the treasures in the world—chests laden with jewels, ancient books with all the spells for all desires, potions so thick and heady it brought you to another kingdom within the blink of an eye," Harold enumerated.

"Wow," she murmured.

Harold nodded. "The curious princess learned about all the treasures in the cave, and she wanted to get them all."

"Did she?"

"No," Harold answered with finality.

"Why not, daddy?"

Harold voice dropped, and then he shared, "Because in that cave there lived a monster—an awful monster. And the moment she climbed the mountain to see all the treasures there, the monster leapt out and ate her."

Blair blinked, then her face crumpled in disgust. "Daddy!" she protested.

Harold shook his head with a chuckle, then kissed her forehead. "Go to sleep, Blair."

And Harold Waldorf reached over and turned off the lamplight, then walked out of the room. The door closed behind her father. Blair sat up, then laid her arms on the windowsill and looked up. And then she saw a faint light, up in the sky. It was not the moon, nor was it a star. It was a light, like her own. And it was almost like there was another bedroom there, another lamp, another child.

She looked up at the light and wondered why it never died. Fathers turned off the light after reading a bedtime story, she knew. That was what her father always did.

Blair looked up at the faint light in wonder, until her eyelids grew heavy and her body slumped in exhaustion. With a large yawn, she curled up in her bed, then edge closer to the window to look at the light that never died.

When she was eighteen years old, Blair Waldorf accepted that happiness was down below, in the real world of heady kisses and gorgeous blue eyes. She was sixteen when she first encountered Nate Archibald. Her best friend had been sent away the year before, and Blair had learned of Serena's return from her Messenger. It had chirped while she was inside the classroom, right in the middle of Chemistry. Blair held up a beaker of bubbling blue liquid, eager to pour it into the yellow fluid in a petri dish.

The Messenger chirped, and she elbowed the top of her bag to read the message.

And she dropped the beaker onto the floor, splashing some rather toxic material on her shoe.

The teacher frowned, displeased, then told her to wash off.

But Serena, her very best friend, was back from the exile that her mother had imposed on her. Blair grabbed her bag and raced out of Constance Billard. She swept down the last few steps until her shoe flew off her foot and she stumbled.

For Blair Waldorf, flying down those long steps and down to the courtyard would have been humiliating. But Blair Waldorf was a queen, and all the rest fell into place. What she did not know was the moment she dropped her beaker, the lacrosse team had been marching from the St Jude's field to Constance. When she threw the doors open, the captain of the team looked up. When she fell, Nate Archibald sprung to life—woke from the dead sleep of routine—and with his heart in his throat, moved to catch her.

Blair Waldorf fell into hard, strong arms. She opened her eyes and met the heaven of concerned blue eyes. He held her still, then asked, "Are you okay?"

She was sixteen years old, and he had the perfect timing. She nodded, then her hand flew to her headband which had fallen askew, then righted it. "You caught me," she said breathlessly.

And then there were two more faces, players from the other school. "He's your savior," one told her, and she nodded. "A regular White Knight," said the other.

And her White Knight flushed. Her heart fluttered. "I'm Nate," he introduced himself. To the team, he instructed. "Go. I'll be right there."

Blair straightened with his help, then sat on the step. Nate stood up and picked up her fallen shoe, then made his way back to her. Blair reached for her shoe, but before she could take it Nate was before her on one knee. He picked up her foot, then fitted her shoe.

And then, from his pocket he took out a white handkerchief and wiped away the trace of the blue Chemistry liquid. The blue liquid followed the threaded embroidery pattern until the monogrammed V stood out.

It was a famous, cursive V. She would recognize it anywhere.

"You're a Vanderbilt," she said.

Nate answered, "I'm an Archibald. But yes, my grandfather is Vanderbilt."

Four dates later, when Nate kissed Blair, Blair closed her eyes and breathed in deep and imagined. With her eyes closed she thought of happiness, and remembered a single lamplight beckoning in the dark night. When she opened her eyes, Nate was there, and he was the ground and the light and the reality of her life.

And from then on, everything was certain. All the puzzle pieces fit together. Nate Archibald and Blair Waldorf were the perfect union. All of Manhattan merely waited.

At eighteen, it finally happened.

And Blair Waldorf answered, "I don't know, Nate."

In the still silence that followed, Nate managed to reach her before anyone else did. He took her by her hand and pulled her with him out of the crush, out of the Archibald townhouse until they reached the white stretch limo outside.

And when the driver started the Chariot, Nate licked his lips. Blair glanced sideways at him, the managed, "I'm sorry."

To which he returned, "I don't understand. This is what we always planned."

Two years together. It was a lifetime for people their age. Half of the relationship they spent talking about weddings, and his career. And he swore he would follow in his grandfather's footsteps. He needed her with him.

He added, "This is what your parents want." When she could not answer, he continued. "Blair, I thought you loved me."

And at that, she answered, "I do!" With fervent words, she insisted, "I do, Nate. I love you. But this—" She shook her head. "I can't help feeling there's more."

His eyebrows furrowed when he turned to her. "What else is there?"

When he loved her, and she loved him and their families knew this was the best connection to make. When Waldorf had the elite as his clients and the Vanderbilts had the name and the power.

"Isn't this what everyone else wants?" Nate said.

Every single girl in Manhattan was jealous of her, and she thrived in that. She had all that every girl who was not her ever wanted in life.

"But I can't help thinking, Nate, that this is not what I want."

She understood the frustration. She could see it plastered so evidently in his face.

"Then what do you want?" he said furiously. "We'll find it."

For such an intelligent girl, Blair could not find better words than, "More."

"More," he repeated. "That's why we're getting married." And then, his eyes lit up. "An apartment all our own. Away from them," he offered. "They are the ones putting so much pressure on us. I found a place. At first I thought it would be good for me, when I start college. But I want us to live there, Blair. That's what you need. Independence. A life of your own."

And he was anxious, eager to fix whatever wrong was between them.

"We'll go to Yale, and I'll work in the mayor's office." His eyes took on an intent look, then grabbed her hand. "I told you about that woman from Brooklyn, who said that the Vanderbilts are in power only because of Bass money." He locked his jaw. "I will prove her wrong. I will work from the bottom up." He brought her hand up to his lips. "I'll show everyone. When I'm mayor, I want to see the look on her face."

And then she saw it. The sparkle in his eye. The sparkle that was there the day he caught her, when he was her savior.

"This is really what you want," she repeated. "This is what will make you happy."

So he brought her hand to his chest, to place her palm on his heart. She felt the furious beating there. "Have you ever seen me this exhilarated? Just thinking about the look on their faces when I prove them all wrong—"

And she gave him a smile, a small one, then agreed, "You're right. I've never seen you like this before."

They stopped in front of her building, right before the roofed walkway. The doorman opened her side of her car. Nate sighed. "I'll walk you up."

"No," she declined. "Not tonight, Nate."

"Let's get married, Blair," he repeated. "We'll make all our dreams come true."

But tonight, he was not expecting an answer. At least, not a hasty answer, not the one she had in mind. She leaned over to kiss his cheek, but he turned his head and caught her lips. Blair closed her eyes and breathed, feeling the kiss, remembering the kiss, taking it home to mull over in bed.

She entered the building and grew nervous inside the elevator. Her mother would have heard about the ball. There was no way she was not tuned in to the news. Someone was bound to break the news of her answer.

When the elevator doors opened to her home, Blair stepped out and was surprised at the darkness of the house. She walked to the living room and saw two Palace guards walk around her as they exited. Her father. Did they bring Eleanor Waldorf news about Harold? Blair held her breath as she rushed to the living room.

"Daddy!" she cried out upon seeing her father sitting in his armchair. Blair threw her arms around him. "I was so afraid something happened to you."

Harold returned her embrace, patting her head. Eleanor cleared her throat.

"I'm fine, princess."

"Why were they here, daddy?"

Harold shook his head. "Nothing important. They just brought instructions from Bart Bass—something they forgot to tell me during our meeting there."

"Harold," Eleanor said, "tell her."

"No," Harold answered.

"Daddy, what is it?"

"Your father is going to lose all his clients," Eleanor told her daughter. "We will lose everything, Blair."

Blair's eyes widened in shock. Her father had been loyal to the Basses since she was young, had done nothing to displease them. He worked very hard handling all financial and legal matters of the people he met through Bart Bass. "Why, daddy? What can we do?"

"I would never ask you—" Harold choked out.

"Tell me, daddy. I want to help you."

"The Dark Prince asked your father for a favor, and he's refused."

Blair looked at her father, at his worried eyes, at his weary lips. She swallowed. "What favor, daddy?"

And finally, Harold heaved a deep, pulling sigh. He met his daughter's gaze, then said, "He's summoned you, Blair."

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

She dreamed of him that night—the Dark Prince.

It was her fault truly. After all, her father had assured her that he would never willingly hand her off. His princess, he had told her, was far more precious than all the clients he had gained, than their grand penthouse, or even the treasures that hung on the walls and lined their safe. In fact, Harold had been so concerned about his daughter that night that he had again, for the first time in years, tucked her into bed and switched off her nightlight.

"Goodnight, daddy," she whispered in the darkness.

"Goodnight, princess," he said in return, the voice in the darkness so assuring that she burrowed her head in her pillow and closed her eyes.

Yet a half an hour since her father left, Blair found herself sitting up in the middle of the night and tiptoeing to the Tome 2010 that sat shut on her desk. She powered up the computer and logged on to the Archives, typed the name quickly. She took a deep breath, then moved her cursor to hover above the button.

Search.

And then, she moved the mouse over the button to the right—Come out, come out, wherever you are, it read—to open the random result page.

And her eyes widened in horror as the jpeg image appeared on the screen. It was the famed portrait from the dead Brooklynite—the painting that had turned into an instant urban classic because of the subject and the painter's infamous demise.

He was a dark beast, the caption read. And he was—with the shadows and the crown that seemed more like dagger sticking out of his black, black head.

"Help us bring down the Dark Prince. Let the Basses pay for their crimes," she read aloud from the page. "If you want to learn more about our group, sign up here." Blair bit her lip, then quickly typed in her email address, then hit enter.

And then the words appeared on the page—You will hear from us.

Blair climbed into bed, then curled under her blanket. She sighed, then decided she needed some milk. She padded barefoot out of her room, then made her way down the steps. Blair frowned at the light in the kitchen. Dorota was always careful about switching off the lights before she went to bed. She walked slowly and stopped by the dining room doorway.

Her father sat alone at the table, with ledgers in front of him. "Daddy," she said softly, walking over to him. Harold looked up at her with his glasses sitting atop his nose. She smiled, then glanced down at the numbers that his father had written down. Bank books lay open on the table, held down by a calculator. "I'm sorry, daddy," she said.

But she was not at fault, she knew. Neither was her father.

But here they both were, sleepless and worried and racked by guilt.

All because of the evil beast that was the Dark Prince.

Harold shook his head. "Don't you worry about it, Blair." And then, Harold closed the books to hide the numbers, set aside the bank books and turned off the calculator. "Couldn't sleep?" Blair shook her head. Harold nodded, then stood up and walked over to the refrigerator. "You're too old for a bedtime story," he said. He pulled out a carton of milk, then poured the contents into two glasses. He popped them inside the microwave over, then returned shortly to deliver one of the glasses to his daughter. "But not too old to share a glass of milk with your father."

Blair smiled, then accepted the milk.

"So," Harold began, and Blair recognized the effort to draw her mind away from the problem at hand, "I heard what happened with Nate."

Blair flushed. "We have other problems now, daddy. Bigger problems."

With their entire finances and her father's career threatened to go down the drain, her problem seemed to petty in comparison.

"No problem is bigger than my daughter's," Harold reminded her.

So Blair nodded. "Should I have accepted it?"

"Think back to tonight. When Nate asked you the question, did your heart skip? Did you hear bells ringing in your ears?" Blair smiled, because once upon a time, her father told her a story of a princess who was walking home from church after confession, then turned around to see a prince following closely behind her, passing by her on a black horse. When the princess looked behind her, at the moment she met his eyes, the church bells rang. She remembered it well. "Did you see your reflection in his eyes?"

And she paused, counted her heartbeat so she could think. And then she answered, "Not for a moment."

And her father nodded sagely, then told her, "Then you did the right thing, sweetheart."

"Harold," she heard her mother call out. Blair turned to the doorway of the kitchen, then saw her mother standing there.

She heard her father whisper in her ear, "My heart still skips a beat."

But Blair was closer, and she could see Eleanor Waldorf's eyes red-rimmed and worried. The lines on her forehead never more apparent until then.

"Blair," her mother acknowledged. "Why aren't you in bed yet? You have school tomorrow."

"She's going up," Harold assured her mother. "Go on, princess. Sleep tight. There is nothing to be worry about."

And even as he said it, Blair could see the anxiety in her mother's gaze. Blair turned to her father, then embraced him. "Don't worry, daddy. It will all work out." She cleared her throat, then strode out of the dining room and up the stairs.

She entered her room, then settled back in bed. Blair looked up and out the window, then glared at the nightlight still lit up high.

That monster was still awake.

Monsters never slept, of course. All the evil they had done probably haunted them when they tried.

Hating was exhausting, she found. She eventually drifted off to one of her favorite dreams. She tore pieces of the loaf of bread she clutched in her arms, then threw food to the ducks. The park was snowy, and she huddled under her cloak.

Any moment now, Nate Archibald would ride in, her knight in shining armor, and he would bring her a thick blanket to wrap around her. It was a gentleman's excuse of course. Nate always took the opportunity to hold her in his arms when he spread the blanket over her.

She heard the neigh, then heard the crunch of ice.

Blair pasted a large smile of her face and turned around to welcome him.

Her eyes grew large in horror. Instead of the white stallion she had expected, had gotten used to, there was a huge black beast of the horse that galloped through the snow, stomping and sending ice flying at its sides. The horse ran faster, and Blair heard the grunts coming from the rider. The horse blew smoke out of its flared nostrils.

She held her breath. The black horse stopped in front of her, almost to her face.

"Look up here," she heard the drawl.

And it was the Dark Prince. She knew it was the Dark Prince come out of The Palace to terrorize her. Slowly, her chin lifted to she could look.

Fear bubbled inside her chest. She saw his hands, smooth and long fingered as he clutched at the reins. The hands were too elegant to be the claws in the Brooklyn depiction.

Her eyes moved to his face. But all she could see was red, pure and bright. It was a scarf, falling from the sky, covering her sight. And then it wrapped around her head.

Blair Waldorf woke up screaming. She gasped, then clutched at her blankets as she tried to catch her breath.

She ran to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. She felt the tears climb to her throat. Blair grasped her neck with one hand, then took deep, calming breaths. Finally, when she regained her composure, she smiled at her reflection.

Blair turned on the shower. She stepped outside, fresh and bright, then selected the perfect outfit for the day. Blair rifled through the dresses hanging in her closet, then plucked one that was perfect for the occasion. She folded the dress and placed it inside her large yellow bag.

Blair put on her school uniform, then ran down the stairs to eat breakfast, making sure to laugh at her father's jokes and kiss her mother on the cheek. Dorota walked with her to the street.

"Call a taxi, Dorota," she told her maid.

"You no walk to the school today, Miss Blair?" Dorota asked.

So she answered, lifting her foot to display, "I'm wearing new shoes. I should take a taxi."

The doorman helped her maid flag a cab. When one stopped in front of them, Blair hugged Dorota. "Thank you, Dorota," she said to her maid. "Look after mom and dad while I'm gone."

Dorota nodded. "Miss Blair, you only gone for few hours. I come ready with a nice pie for you when you get home."

"I'd love that," Blair said with a smile. She got into the taxi, then waved goodbye to Dorota. Blair turned to the driver, then said, "To The Palace."

She sat back in the seat for the longest ride of her life. The Palace was close, but with the way her heart beat she was afraid she would be an old woman by the time she arrived. Her Messenger chirped in her hands. When she glanced down, she saw the pigeon avatar flying on the screen with a rolled paper tied to its leg. Blair clicked on it, and the paper unfurled to show her the message.

'W8ng 4u d g8. N'

'Running l8,' she texted back. 'Wil luk 4u l8r.'

"We're here, miss."

Blair started, then looked at the driver. The cab driver nodded towards the building at her side. Blair peered out the window and saw the grand entrance to The Palace. She craned her neck to look up, and true enough, she could not see the top as it vanished up in the clouds.

"Tallest building in Manhattan," the driver said.

"We're here," she said in realization. Part of her wanted to grip the door of the taxi and yell at the driver to take her to Constance. But then she remembered her parents' faces as they worried over their lives.

Tallest building or not. Billions or not. Power or not.

The Basses had no right to put that burden on her father's shoulders.

Blair handed the driver her fare, then climbed out of the cab. The Palace guards immediately opened the doors for her. She thanked them, then proceeded to the front desk. To the young woman, she said, "I'm here to see the Dark Prince."

The young woman smiled, then said, "There is no Dark Prince in our guest list, miss."

Blair pursed her lips. "Chuck Bass," she said again. Obviously, the employees would rather not acknowledge the judgmental label that Manhattan had bestowed on the owner's son.

The young woman—Emma—looked her up and down. "He sent for you?"

"Yes," Blair answered, gritting her teeth.

Emma pressed a blue button from under the desk. One of the guards walked up to her, then gestured for her to follow him. Blair walked behind the guard until she was led to a room. The guard opened the room, then she saw several women already waiting inside. She walked inside. The other women greeted her.

Two Japanese stewardesses patted the chair between them graciously. Blair settled in the seat.

A girl with straight blonde hair walked over to her. "Hello." The blonde extended her hand, and Blair shook it. "I'm Alicia. I'm an interior designer."

"My name is Blair Waldorf," she answered, finding a tinge of haughtiness in her voice when saying her name. It was natural. She _was _a Waldorf.

A few pairs of eyes turned to her. Blair noted that twin girls wearing hotel uniforms were at a corner, looking at her curiously. It was Alicia who voiced the question, "And what is a Waldorf doing here in the waiting room?"

She was in the waiting room to hell.

"This is a waiting room," she observed. There were drinks on one side, and it looked like an open bar. Current magazine issues sat on a coffee table. "Looks like a business class lounge at the airport." A wide screen television was set up high on the wall.

"This is where everyone waits for Chuck Bass to pick them," Alicia related.

At that, Blair shot up to her feet. "Excuse me?"

"It's the waiting room to the Dark Prince's bed," the interior designer whispered in her ear. Alicia pointed to a mirror at the end of the room. "And that's how he chooses."

Blair gave her a look of disgust. She stalked towards the mirror, then said into it, "You are abominable! This is disgraceful." Blair thrust up her chin, then marched out of the waiting room.

The pattering sound of Prada accompanied her march out and across the lobby of The Palace. She heard the ringing sound from the front desk, then Emma's flustered voice. Blair clutched her bag to her side and stood outside The Palace, waving for a taxi. When there was none, and her heart was still beating loudly at the offense, Blair stalked down the street.

"Miss Waldorf!" she heard a man call out. "Miss Waldorf."

Blair huffed, then trudged on.

"Miss Waldorf, wait."

The light at the crossing turned green, and the cars started. She stopped to wait. A shadow fell over her. She turned and saw the large Palace guard standing beside her, blocking out the sun.

"Miss Waldorf, my apologies. You are to go directly to the top floor."

"If you think I am going back there after what I saw—"

The guard sighed. "They were not invited, Miss Waldorf. You were."

"I was blackmailed," she corrected him, her voice scathing.

At that, the guard did not comment. He offered his arm. "Then there's a reason you're here," he said. Blair glared at the arm first, then held on to it.

The guard entered his security code in the elevator when they got in. Blair looked up at the LCD display as the numbers quickly changed as it registered the express. She grew nauseated at the speed at which they climbed. When she thought she would throw up, the elevator stopped. The doors opened.

Into an empty room.

"Another waiting room?" she asked.

The doorman nodded at the door. He gestured to the door knocker, then stepped back inside the elevator. Once the doors closed, Blair found her nervousness grow.

Even the guards were afraid of him.

Monster, her brain screamed.

She reached out with a trembling hand then rapped on the door.

For such modern living, the door gave an eerie creaking noise when it swung open. Blair found herself staring at the back of a head. A curt, "Follow me," was all she heard.

He moved, and she found herself staring at the shoulders. There were no overly bunched muscles, or spikes protruding. She made a face as she tried to discern if there were horns peeking out of his thick dark hair.

"You're rude," she commented, when Blair verified that he had no claws. Like her dream, the hands at his sides seemed elegant and maintained.

His voice was cold when he responded, "You just called me abominable, before even meeting me." He stopped by another doorway. "Get in there. I'll get us a drink."

Blair stopped, then peered inside. It did not seem like a torture chamber of any kind. In fact, it looked like a living room of sorts. "You're offended," she realized as she stepped inside. Blair walked inside the room, then settled in the comfortable armchair. All around her, the walls were mirrored and she saw herself in her school uniform looking out of place in the lush surroundings.

"I'm human," he pointed out.

Outside, the Dark Prince turned around.

Blair's eyes widened when she saw the side of his head. And then, he walked towards her, nearer and nearer.

And finally, she saw his face.

His eyes, she realized, were brown.

RRRIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGG.

RRRIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGG.

RRRIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGG.

"Bells?" she whispered.

The Dark Prince dropped the glasses. "Get out of there!" he yelled. He sprung towards the door. Blair gasped when the door shut down before he could come in. She turned around and saw the clear glass windows that overlooked the city be covered by a wall that fell from the ceiling. Blair ran towards the door and tried to pull it open.

"What the hell was that?" she screamed when the ringing ceased.

Silence. Complete and utter silence.

And then finally, she heard his voice on the other side. "I told you to get out," he hissed.

"Sorry I'm not a cheetah!" she yelled back.

"Don't panic," he said in forced calm. "It's the security system."

"Well get them to release it."

He sighed. "It's time-sensitive," he explained.

Blair frowned. "You mean we won't get it to open?"

"It's either twenty-four or forty eight hours depending on the threat detected."

Her eyes narrowed. "That's insane. My parents have no idea I'm here!" she yelled at the door, her voice filled with hatred while her eyes filled with tears. She looked at herself in the mirrored wall. She sniffled. "This is all your fault. I hate you so much."

On the other side, there was silence.

"Dark Prince!"

Nothing.

"Chuck Bass," she called.

He did not answer.

Blair looked around her at the empty room. At least twenty four hours. She would be all alone in the strange room. On one hand, if he turned into a monster he could not reach her. On the other—

She licked her lips, then grabbed her bag. She rooted inside for her Messenger. There were no signal bars. She waved it around hoping for a miracle. It was still dead.

"Chuck Bass, you're the reason I'm here! You can't do this." Guilt. If he was really human, then that should work. "You summoned me. I wouldn't be here if there was no ultimatum." She remembered the waiting room downstairs. "You have plenty of women waiting for you."

Finally, she heard, "Maybe I wanted to meet you." Her eyebrows arched. Blair sat down on the floor, then rested her head back against the door. She scoffed. "Maybe I wanted company."

"Why me?"

"Because I wanted you," he said matter-of-factly. "So why not you?"

She tightened her jaw. Brat. "Let's be clear," she said. "I came here so my dad won't lose his practice. That's it."

"Plenty of time to talk about that. We'll be stuck like this for a while," Chuck told her.

Blair rolled her eyes. She yawned at the little sleep she got that night. "Well, if there's plenty of time—" She stood up, then walked over to the couch. "I'm going to take a nap," she called out.

"I want you to keep me company," he insisted. "No sleeping."

It may have been the sheer exhaustion, or it may have been the impossibility of the situation. Blair attributed it to the sheer height instead. She had settled into the couch, then drifted into a dream land. The next thing she saw was red, blood red, all red. All around her it was cold, like snow was falling.

The red scarf peeled from her face, and then she opened her eyes.

There, the Dark Prince sat atop his giant black beast. And then, he leaned down until the moonbeam hit his face.

In her dream, she opened her eyes and sucked into her lungs the cold icy air. "Dark Prince," she said to him, "you have brown eyes."

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: **Super busy week at work. Enjoy.

**Part 5**

The Dark Prince lived in hell.

It was the first thing she realized when she woke up. There was no air, no breeze, and it was sweltering hot. Blair stumbled out of the couch, her school uniform clinging onto the sticky skin of her back. She fanned herself with her hand and looked around her.

Hell, it seemed, was paved with gold. Or at least the best furniture and appliances that have been featured in design magazines. The couch she had just slept on was Chanel Paris. She had seen it on the website when she had gone online to find the perfect bag to put on hold. It had become a habit. With her father becoming so busy with the clients that his association with the Basses provided, and Nate having always fumbled with selecting the best gift for her, she had decided to extend her helping hand and register gifts that would make her happy.

And the latest Chanel bag would have made her happy. It was on the website, along with this couch.

The Dark Prince's couch cost an entire year's tuition to Constance.

Well, the gorgeous, sinfully comfortable couch did not erase the fact that she was in hell.

The large flat LCD tv screen did not make it better. Neither did the teak furniture that probably used up hundred year old trees.

Irrationally enough, Blair decided to blame global warning on the Dark Prince.

There was a knock. She unbuttoned the top of her blouse and sucked in some air. Blair marked over to the shut door and barked, "What?"

"So you're awake."

She saw the shadowed bottom portion of the wall. She leaned down and kicked on the bottom part of the wall. It was a thick glass, and realized it light. The entire bottom part of the wall lit perhaps in those wild nights her father told her about.

"I'm about to die here," she told him. "How can you live like this?"

A pause. And then, "The security system was installed for my own safety. You can't understand how many people hate my family."

"Of course I do," Blair responded. "I don't live in a tower, locked up from the world."

He lived in a tower.

Blair licked her lips, then wondered about the light. Her eyes went to the shuttered window and saw a white plastic ball, with animal shapes on the surface. Her eyes narrowed. It was a night light. From the short moment before the lockdown, she had peered outside and saw the direction that the window faced. And then she realized, "This used to be your bedroom."

"Yes."

No one ever turned off his night light.

"Dark Prince—"

"My name is Chuck," he injected.

"Chuck, it's hot here."

"Not always," he pointed out. "I do live here."

He spoke so softly. If he always spoke like this, even with a door between them, then she wondered how much more softly he spoke in person. So soft, she thought, that another person would be forced to lean so close.

"It's hot now." Blair pulled on the doorknob. "It's still locked."

"You napped for four hours. I told you," he said firmly. "We can be here up to two days."

And suddenly she could not breathe. Her eyes widened, and she pulled on the doorknob again. "This is insane," she gasped. "How can you live like this?" she asked again, in her panic forgetting that she had already asked the question.

"Blair—"

"Oh my God. Nate will know!" she cried out. "Nate will know. Nate will come and get me." He was her Knight, and he would realized—probably already realized by now—that she was missing. He would find her and save her from this prison. And then she fell into a fit of coughing. Blair opened her mouth to suck in her breath, then started coughing again. "This place is hell. You're trying to kill me."

"Why would I try to kill you?"

"Because you want to," she retorted, throwing back to him his reason of why he picked her over so many women already eager for his company.

"That doesn't make sense," he replied.

"I have to get out of here!"

"I know," he said, his voice becoming gentler, a show of understanding. "But you have to understand, Blair—I can't do anything about it right now."

"You're enjoying this."

"I would be the last person in the world who would take pleasure in forcing someone in this—What did you call the Palace?"

"Tower," she grumbled. "You're miserable."

He always had the longest stretches of silence. Like saying nothing meant everything. But then he added, "I never denied that."

"You want people to be as miserable as you are. That's why I'm here."

"That's not true," he said. "You're panicking."

Maybe she was; maybe she was not. All she knew was that the glorious, awful place was caging her in, and this was not her place.

"I hate being shut in there when this happens."

Blair pulled on the knob with all her strength, then finally loosened her grip. "I hate you!"

"You hardly know me. Hate's too strong a word. Hate's reserved for people who are very close to you."

Once upon a time when her mother first called her fat, she thought she hated Eleanor. But then her mother made her a pretty yellow dress and Blair loved her again. And then there was the time when her father told her she could not take a trip to Vermont with Nate. She hated Harold then, for a whole thirty minutes before she realized she loved him again.

But when she looked back, recalled in her mind the childish fervor with which she had responded, she could not think it hate at all.

"You don't hate me," he clarified, as if she needed his reassurance. "Hatred is for fathers and sons."

His light always stayed on through the nights.

And before she could draft a reply, he continued, "Listen, I had something installed there for these occasions, but I've never used it because I knew better than to be caught in when the alarm goes off." She could retort, tell him she was not briefed before she was blackmailed into coming. But she was still spellbound by the words he had drawn together.

Fathers and sons.

The Captain adored Nate; and for the brief time that she had known Mr van der Woodsen, she had seen the way he had guided Eric.

She missed her father. She blinked away the tears that gathered in her eyes.

But princesses were trained; queens knew when to fight her battles.

Not when the enemy was down.

"You know what," she said softly. And now Blair imagined the Dark Prince, with his dark head leaning forward closer to the door that separated them. The Dark Prince would be forced to listen closely, if he even wanted to hear. In his selfish need for company, he would listen too. He had been deafened by the silence. "Let's not talk right now."

She took a deep breath, wishing to wash away the desperate need inside of her.

Nate would save her.

Nate caught her when she fell.

"Nate would know," she whispered. Blair sat on the floor, then leaned her head back.

When she was a child, she would look out the window and say her wishes out loud. Out there, she told herself, even while that small flickering light took her attention away from the stars, was a hero waiting for her.

The windows were shuttered shut. How could her wish fly away into the night?

"Blair," she heard him say, softly, tentatively. Almost like he was afraid to disrupt her thoughts.

She did not answer. She rested her cheek against the door. Sniffled. Involuntarily.

"I hate crying women," she heard next.

And suddenly the dream and the despair flew from her brain. Her eyebrows slammed together. Blair lifted her head; her back straightened. She glared at the dark door.

"There's a latch overhead," he instructed. "Pull on it."

She blinked. Blair looked up and spied the latch that he had earlier begun to talk about. She pulled herself up on her feet. There was the latch, higher than she could reach.

"Did you see it?"

She licked her lips, nodded until she realized he could not see her. "It's too high. Why couldn't you get something remote controlled?"

"There's no power in a security shutdown, Blair."

She pursed her lips. She searched for a chair to step on, even a stool.

"Well are you going to open it? There's no way to open it from out here."

Blair shut her eyes tightly. "Wait!" She opened them then spotted a swiveling chair sitting in front of the shuttered window. Blair walked over and placed her hands on the backrest. Soft leather. A discarded dark blue jacket draped over the arm. And suddenly she imagined the Dark Prince sitting on his throne, with the glass windows extending from the ceiling to the floor, cradling a glass of brandy while he stared down at all of Manhattan. Blair wheeled the chair over to the latch that he had told her about.

The wheels kept locking as she pushed. Halfway across the room, she was grumbling in frustration.

If Nate were here, he would push the chair for her. He was a gentleman like that.

She placed the chair against the wall. Blair climbed uneasily. She grasped at the sides while the swiveling chair swung.

"I don't understand why there's only a latch on my side," she complained as she reached up.

"It's a security lockdown," he repeated, as if it explained everything.

The latch was high, seemed higher while she straightened. She held onto the wall as she reached up. The chair unsteadily swung. She rose on her tiptoes. Her fingers teased the cool metal. She imagined it sparkling and shiny, like it was a prize. If she pulled it, it would open the room to breeze and air and wind.

The chair slid from underneath her. She squealed, then grabbed at the flat surface of the wall. And suddenly, she was flying.

Flying like when she fell from the steps of Constance.

Only now there was no White Knight to save her.

She fell onto the floor with a cry and thud. Her ankle twisted on the floor, and she felt her entire body hit the carpet.

Falling hurt.

Hurt so much.

She had never fallen before. Her daddy never let it happen. Nate certainly did not.

Even after she refused his proposal, he had been right there, taking her home, promising to see her the next day.

Her ankle throbbed, and she bit her lower lip to keep from the mewling pained cry that threatened to escape from her throat.

"Blair! What was that?"

She did not answer. Blair cried, kept quiet while she did.

"What happened?"

And then she heard the insistent jerking of the metal doorknob, like she had not tried to pry open the door over and over again. She sniffled, and found the next thudding noises ridiculous. Was he really trying to break down the door? She would have laughed but her ankle hurt too much.

"Blair, are you unconscious?"

Oh God. Her shoulders trembled as she forced herself to stop laughing out loud. "Yes, I am!" she called out. "So shut up."

The thudding relaxed at the sign of life. Blair bit her lip. She moaned deep when she moved her leg up. It hurt, so much.

Blair sighed. She turned on her back and extended her leg. She held it steady, until she almost cramped.

She closed her eyes, heard the thud, then the crack. Blair turned her head to the side and then saw the changing shadowed color on the bottom glass wall. The back of the glass seemed to peel away until the surface was translucent.

Maybe it was just that intense pain, but she could almost see a morphed, mangled face on the other side. It was almost like seeing a face reflected on the rippling surface of water.

Until, of course, she realized that it was the composition of the glass.

The Dark Prince peered at her from the floor on the other side of the wall, torn the plaster cover from the other side. He opened his mouth, speaking through the awful, thick, distorting glass.

But at least she could see. And even with the barely transparent, shadowed, mangled image, she was no longer alone.

Her ankle hurt so much, but his brown eyes roved her entire body. He looked at her, then asked, and she could hear him very faintly as they were now a few feet from the crack on the door. "Are you okay?" he called to her.

She shook her head, felt the tear trickling from the corner of her eye and onto the carpet. Thankfully enough, the distorting glass would hide the tear. He hated crying women, after all. She held his gaze.

And then his face was gone. All she could see of him was the shadow of his legs as he moved. And then the Dark Prince worked, she saw, moving to tear at the next piece, and then the next, and the next. He tore at pieces from his side until the next time that he lay on his stomach she could see him stretched out fully.

He lay down on his side as he looked at her. He splayed his palm on the glass. She wondered if he expected her to place her hand against his. Her arm lifted. The surface of the glass creaked, and she realized he was trying to push the barrier away.

She flushed, grateful that he would not see.

She heard the sharp break. Blair watched as the glass fell on its side, opening up an eight inch by eight inch space between them.

A soft breeze blew into the room from his, oddly enough, when they were both enclosed. But the sensation brought a small smile to her otherwise tense lips.

Her eye flickered to his. And then her gaze traveled, quickly, immediately spanning his entire face. Eager and anxious, curious and finally—enchanted.

"You don't look evil," she realized. His thick brows drew together in permanent thought, his lips full, his eyes slanted and piercing and almost—"Well, not too much at least."

The corner of his lips curved. For some reason, it sent a thrill down her spine.

They lay side by side. Even with the wall partition, it felt too intimate.

When their eyes met, it felt more intimate than Nate's kiss. When his breath blew from his side to her face, teasingly, softly, it was more affecting than when Nate's thumb brushed over the lace of her bra.

"And you look like an angel," he answered.

tbc

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 6**

"And you look like an angel."

Just like that, the monster in her dreams burst--disintegrated into thin air and blew into emptiness, carried out into the air and seeped through miniscule cracks in the walls. Blair followed the fragments of the monster with her eyes as they floated ever farther and finally faded in flight.

Then she turned to look back at the Dark Prince. Only now, the Dark Prince was no more than a young man.

A rather pleasant-looking young man.

"How's your ankle?" he asked.

She assessed her pain, but hesitated to move her leg. She answered, "I think it's twisted, not broken."

And then he vanished from her sight, and she could only see the shadows of his shoes as he walked away. Relief flooded her the moment she could see him through the small opening that he had made. And then he reached into the hole, offering her a small glass to take. Blair winced when the sleeve of his shirt brushed over the shattered glass, but he carefully held his palm over the rim of the glass to keep debris away.

"Take it," he instructed. "A good glass of brandy always takes the edge away."

Blair eyed the offering. "So it will dull the pain?" She had never had brandy. Serena always joined her for cocktails, and she had always celebrated with champagne in Nate's company. Every day with Nate had been celebration.

"I assure you, it dulls pain until you're numb. First hand experience," he added smoothly.

So she reached an uncertain hand, then closed her hand around the glass. Her fingertips brushed his, and as if on queue their gazes slammed together. She flushed, without reason. She shivered, but not at the cold. In fact, his skin was warm—hot even.

She took the glass abruptly from his hand.

Blair rested her weight on her elbow to pull herself up and tip the brandy down her throat. The liquid burned, so much she almost cursed. But princesses never cursed. Princesses were not supposed to cough either. Guess she was not as special as she always thought. Blair collapsed into a coughing fit, sending bolts of pain shooting into her ankle.

Tears ran down her eyes to accompany the classless coughing. She placed the glass down on the floor and set her palms on the floor to balance herself.

"It's not my fault you can't take a small amount of brandy," she heard him grumble.

The moment she sucked in enough air, she glared at the face as he peered through, watching her intently. "That is not necessary," she said scathingly.

His lips thinned. "I gave it to you. I don't want you to blame me." And then, the Dark Prince said to her the most unexpected thing. "Princess," he sneered.

Blair supposed it was his way of insulting her way of drinking brandy. But when the word fell from his lips, she felt a warm, pleasant sensation low in her belly. She whispered her demand, but she wondered if it did not sound more like a plea, "What did you say?"

"Princess," he repeated.

When his warm eyes met hers, Blair imagined a cup of hot cocoa in the middle of the night. She would cup the mug between her hands. She used to do it while looking up at his light. Despite his intention, Blair's lips curved in satisfaction. She was a princess.

And she was kind and generous, just like all princesses were. Blair would take care of the less fortunate, despite the fact that they were far richer in the treasures of the world

"You have absolutely no people skills," she pointed out.

Chuck's face took on a stubborn, defensive expression. "And you think saying that makes you any better?"

"It was an observation, Bass," she replied. Somehow, calling him Dark Prince now that she knew he had no horns. "Besides, it's a prelude to something wonderful."

"Something wonderful," he repeated, leaning forward, closer to the opening.

"That's right," she promised. Her eyes twinkled at the prospect. "As it happens, I have an A+ for most of my classes, including etiquette. I'll give you a crash course. By the time we get out of here, you'll be passable."

"You can train me in two days."

"Maybe shorter," she answered. "Your father is bound to find out we're stuck here."

"My father is out of the country. Even then—"

"Nate will look for me. So will my parents," she said with confidence.

"You have such great faith in him, don't you?"

Blair turned her head and saw him regarding her. "My dad?"

"Nate."

She shrugged. "He loves me. He's perfect for me. He wants to be with me." And then she blinked, curious, then asked him, "Haven't you ever felt that way before?"

He mulled over her question with a frown. She smiled in encouragement, then slid closer to him. Her ankle's dull throb returned, but it was negligible now in comparison to the conversation. She felt a sharp sting on her back, then cried out. Blair reached behind her and picked a small sharp of the glass that cut at her shoulder blade.

She did not cry, but wished with all her heart that her White Knight would come and save her. If Nate did not come soon, she would be dead by the time the doors opened. The Dark Prince's tower was treacherous, with a way to hurt yourself at every turn.

But still, she was near enough. She felt his hand close over her shoulder. Blair's eyes fluttered closed at the contact. Her breath hitched when his thumb pressed on the side of her new wound.

It was growing dark now. Inside the rooms where the windows were shuttered and the lights were off, it was close to pitch dark.

"I have," he said.

His fingers were strong as they moved on her skin. Blair licked her lips in appreciation. Profoundly unskilled as he was dealing with others, the Dark Prince seemed to know how to move his hands. "Have what?" she breathed.

"Felt that way."

And all she could answer was, "Oh."

His hand fell away, and she missed it five seconds from the moment they parted. Blair turned to lie on her side. He did as well, and they faced each other through the opening.

"Will you let me teach you?" she asked. "People would appreciate you."

"People appreciate everything I am," he responded. "You should see them practically worship me. I have no desire unmet."

And that made her sad. "Outside these walls, you're a soulless monster."

He flinched, almost imperceptibly. But the Dark Prince was proud. "Maybe because I am. Maybe because that is what I choose to be in other people's eyes."

This was what it was like to live in places with no entertainment, no form of communication. When she got out of this prison, Blair swore she would fight for the right of everyone to have better signal on their phones, to have electricity available at all times. Her eyes drooped in her boredom. The last sight she saw before she slid into the arms of sleep was the curious, gentle eyes that peered through the gaping hole in the wall.

The first sight she saw in her dreams was the same she slept with. Only now, his brown eyes were nearer. The floor was gone from underneath her, only to be replaced by the softest cushion and dark red wine of Egyptian silk. She lay on her back and looked up at his half-lidded eyes.

Dark Prince, she wanted to say. Instead, it was a cry that escaped from her mouth, "Chuck!"

His lips curved. Her lips parted when she felt his body lower itself on her. She burrowed deeper into the cushion as he surrounded her.

"Tell me what you want," he said in his low voice.

The words were beyond her control. Her eyes rolled back in her head. She felt the teasing lips behind her ear, a hot, wet tongue play with the other shell. "What I want—"

She struggled to mouth the name—who was beautiful and patient and the very incarnation of everything she always wanted, yet still refused.

Nate.

She wanted Nate.

Needed Nate.

Nate would save her from this.

This she did not want.

"You," she gasped out. "I want you."

And the words seemed to fuel the Dark Prince. He rose, seeming like a gigantic figure above her. Underneath him she wondered how it was she could still breathe. He was larger than life itself. She reached a hand up to rest on his chest, to push him away. Instead, she found her arms wrapping around his neck.

And she felt him, firm and insistent, probing at her entrance. She stiffened under him, tensed the way he tensed under her hands.

Slowly, slowly, he entered her, inch by agonizing slow inch. His mouth closed over hers. Against her lips, he murmured, "Does it hurt?"

She cried out in her sleep. Her eyes shot open. She sat up. Blair saw the dark figure hunched over her. It was a shadow blacker than the pitch darkness of the unlit room. A scream built up inside her until it reached her throat. She took a deep breath in preparation.

But she felt the skin on her shoulder. Familiar and hot like no one she had ever felt.

She flushed, her own skin warming at the memory.

"Does it hurt?" he said. Blair shook her head, until she realized in the pitch blackness he could not see her. "Good," the Dark Prince returned. She wondered what skill he had that he could see her movement in the dark. "I felt your hair against my hand," he offered as an answer to her unvoiced question.

And then she felt the warm moist cloth against where the back of her shoulder used to hurt.

"This is just a napkin from the bar," he told her. "When we get out, I'll have my own doctor look at you."

And then, moments later, she felt his hands rest on her thigh. Her imagination ran rife with images from her dream. She held her breath, and his hands moved down her thigh to her knees, to her calves, then all the way to close over her ankle.

"It feels swollen."

He pressed; she whispered.

"Stop," she said into the darkness, towards the silhouette, the moving shadow. She reached forward towards her unseen companion. Her hand rested over his chest. Underneath her palm she felt the rapid heartbeat. She repeated, "Stop, Chuck."

"A long time ago I sprained my wrist. My father told me never to cry even though it hurt. And I never had a mother."

She held her breath, listening to his voice so close to her for the first time. In the darkness, it felt easier to listen. Perhaps, to him, easier to share.

"My only comfort was the way the doctor massaged the hurt, to urge the blood to flow inside."

And then in the darkness she grew warmer. She wondered if perhaps he was drawing closer to her. His hands left her injured ankle. And then she felt his fingers hook at her dress. He pushed one side away. She felt his thumb brush on the wound now.

"It's better," he said.

"You can't even see," she parried.

"I can tell."

"It's too dark."

And then she felt him as he stood. She felt his hand grasp hers. The Dark Prince pulled her up to her feet. He then led her through the room. He settled her on the Chanel couch that she had slept in earlier that day. Blair curled up on the couch. He then lifted her feet up gingerly, then settled down himself, resting her feet on his lap.

"How did you get in?" she whispered, yawning.

He answered, "You'll see." And then, "Go to sleep."

In the morning she woke up first and sat up on the couch. She pulled her feet off from his lap. And then she blinked sleep from her eyes to regard him. His nice dress shirt was mangled by cuts from the plaster and the shards of glass. Blair craned her neck to assess the damage to the wall, where he appeared to have torn space large enough to get through.

There was a cut on his chin. She leaned over to brush away at the dried blood.

And then his eyes opened. Blair met his gaze, then drew back her hand as if burned.

"Good morning," he greeted.

She decided to tell him, "Maybe you're not so bad with people."

Chuck nodded, then asked, "If the security doors open today, will you leave?"

"If I do, it doesn't mean that—"

"Will you leave?" he cut in.

She moistened her lips, then nodded. "Yes."

He stood from the couch, then walked over to the display case sitting near the window. Blair frowned then followed him. Oddly enough, her ankle, though still tender, did not feel sprained anymore. She walked easily to him that by the time he turned around, she was only a few feet away.

He held out his palm. Sitting there was a round piece of chocolate that shone like it was a treasure.

"Do you want a piece of chocolate?" he asked.

She reached for it, but he drew his hand back. She pursed her lips.

Chuck continued, "The moment you eat this, be prepared. This is a special dark chocolate recipe known only to the Palace chef. It's brushed over with white powder gold. You won't find it anywhere else in the world, Blair."

Blair took the chocolate from his palm. Chuck held his breath. She raised it to her lips. Chuck caught her wrist.

"If you eat that, you would want to stay here forever."

She lowered the chocolate, then walked past him and put it inside the box. She turned to him, then said, "We haven't even had breakfast."

Chuck nodded, then turned away.

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: **First of all, thank you for supporting this endeavor. Second of all, I bow to those of you who have spotted the fairy tales and mythological tales that I decided to wrap this story around on. Yes, you are right. I decided to insert Cinderella (Nate and Blair's first meeting), Beauty and the Beast (Blair's decision to go to Chuck to save Harold), Persephone and Hades (what the chocolate will do) and a few more that you have not yet mentioned. I'll mention them after you spot them, just to see if I was successful in the allusions. But yes, there is a lot more.

**Part 7**

His hands were fisted, but he did not allow anyone else to see. Nate grimly paced back and forth on the Palace lobby. With his fists inside his coat pocket, his eyebrows furrowed, his stance tense, Nate looked every inch the burdened royal. He said to the head of security, once more, "Get the code from Bart Bass."

"Mr Archibald, Mr Bass is in Dubai." He looked up from his own Messenger, then slid the little device into his pocket. "We have sent him messages. Without his response, we cannot access the top floor."

"My girlfriend is trapped in there."

She had not told him anything. Instead, she had allowed him to assume that they would meet the moment the bell rang and signaled the end of class.

There was still a bouquet of flowers sitting in his Chariot, unused.

The head of security started, then stalked over past Nate. Nate heard the scuffle, then saw the guard hovering over another figure. He frowned, then walked over and recognized the young Brooklynite who had a handheld camera in her hand.

"Will you unhand her?"

The guard shook his head. "No one is allowed to film in here."

"I'm making a documentary," the young woman explained.

"Vanessa," he remembered. She had told him about the rumor of Vanderbilt power being tied completely to the Basses. He had no doubt she was here pursuing the same story. "You should stay with me."

"She's with you?" the guard asked.

"Yes," Nate said.

The guard released Vanessa, then held out a hand. "Give me the card."

Vanessa sighed, then popped the memory card from the camera and handed it over. "Thank you," she whispered to Nate, then slipped a new card into the camera.

Nate grasped her elbow, then led her away. Vanessa followed until they reached the Chariot. When Nate held the door open for her, she hesitated. Nate nodded towards the vehicle. Reluctantly, she entered. Nate sat beside her, then turned to her.

"Have you been watching the place long?"

She nodded slowly, then offered, "You want to know about your girlfriend."

"She's up there, isn't she?"

Vanessa confirmed it, then said, "She was hesitant about it, but yeah, the guard took her up."

Nate set his jaw. "That's what I needed to know."

The young woman brought her camera and focused the lens on Nate. She then asked quietly, "What are you planning to do?"

Nate said decisively, "I'm going to get her out of there." He called out to the driver, then gave an address. He then turned to Vanessa, not looking at the camera, and said, "I've got to see my godmother. She can help."

Vanessa nodded, then held her camera steady. "Do you think your girlfriend is in danger?"

"I know she is."

They were surrounded by rich and beautiful things. To live here, up so high in the sky, must be heaven. Yet everywhere she turned was merely a mirror reflecting them, nothing else, no one else to see. She wondered if this was hell. It certainly felt like it. Hell was where they took away everything you loved, and here she was, trapped with a man she did not understand, away from the cold comfort of her mother's house, deaf to the soothing lull of her father's voice, blind to Nate's sweet, blue, darling eyes.

Instead, it was heat. All heat.

It was in the staleness of the unmoving air. It was in the impatience that chaffed at her.

It was in the gaze that bore into the back of her head.

"You're watching me," she commented.

He was heat.

Blair had been inspecting the various pieces of fruits that sat in the metal holder and displayed by the wall. She picked up a golden yellow mango, then held it up to her nose.

She cocked her head, then asked him, "Is this sweet?"

He did not change his regard, merely watched her closely. And then he answered, "I have no idea. I never eat those."

Her eyebrows rose. She checked the fruits, determined each one to be the perfect ripeness—nothing young, nothing too soft. If she bit into one, she knew the juice would dribble into her mouth, stain her lips, drip down her chin.

"That's such a waste," she told him. "Do you know how hard it is to find a mango in this condition in New York City?"

"It's all money," he told her. "Besides, it's for display. Not for eating."

"That's because you've never tasted this." On her four month anniversary with Nate, he had brought her to a nice restaurant. Nate had helped her slice the fruit into bite-sized strips. It had been sweet and tangy at the same time. She searched around for a knife, then grimaced. She had to be stuck in a living room. Blair sighed, then put down the fruit.

He strode towards her, then picked up the discarded mango.

"We can't eat it." There was no knife, no spoon to scoop at the flesh. Nate did like to scoop the flesh off with a teaspoon. Once, in a very playful mood, he had asked her to open wide so he could feed her the mango.

"Why not?" he asked. Chuck grabbed a standing bottle of water and washed the fruit and his hands. He then started peeling the skin off the fruit. Blair's lips parted at the rather crude motion.

She moistened her lips when she saw the yellow juice dribble on his fingers. "Because," she said, a little hoarsely, watching the liquid run down his palm, "we don't have utensils."

"But you want it. We're supposed to get what we want." In that moment, she almost thought him teasing. Yet the somber face belied the words. When the mango was halfway peeled, he leaned close to her and held the fruit to her. "Will this do?" he said softly.

Blair's eyes fluttered to the mango, then at him. "You expect me to bite into that?" she breathed.

"You're hungry, aren't you?"

When Nate held up the yellow flesh to her lips, the flavor had been mild, slightly sweet, slightly sour. And she remembered the way the hair on her arms prickled. The fruit that the Dark Prince held was tempting. The look in his eyes when he offered—even more so.

This was, truly, hell.

She could feel the saliva gather in her mouth. She had not eaten for a day.

Only brandy sat in her stomach. If it remained like so, she would find herself knocked out or in pain. So slowly, she leaned forward. He detected the movement, hyper aware. He moved closer, held his hand steady.

She wrapped both her hands around his arm. The juice had sluiced down, making his wrist a little bit sticky. A fresh drop of juice created a path down the skin of the mango. She caught it with the tip of her tongue.

He cleared his throat. Her gaze snapped up to him.

And all he said was, "Go ahead."

So she bent close and bit a piece of flesh. The flavor exploded in her mouth, and she wondered where the sourness went. It was sweet, ridiculously, hilariously, breath takingly, overwhelmingly… sweet. Her brows furrowed in her surprise. She straightened, then licked her lips.

"Good?" he choked out.

Her eyes narrowed, then she cocked her head musingly. "Different."

"Not what you remember?" he asked again.

Once upon a time, she had eaten it from where it was speared on her boyfriend's fork. It had been a lighter yellow, but it had looked perfect and unique. The skin had been flawless in its paleness.

This was dribbling, wet and moist, golden yellow with the skin a little scarred. But it was heady, like having too much would produce a high so high she would never calm down again.

"It's—good," she managed.

"Are you surprised?"

And so she closed her hand tighter around his wrist, then pushed to hold the fruit up to him. She invited, "Try it."

He held his gaze, almost unblinking, when he bent to bite exactly over where she did. The sight was primal, and it made her swallow hard. She watched the top of his head as he moved over the flesh surrounding her bite. She could hear the sound, a little moan, and then the slurp. She imagined that his mouth flooded with the juice.

When he faced her again, she delighted at the sight of the stain around his lips.

He smirked at her. "It's never going to be enough to put them up for display."

And she imagined him sometime in the future devouring the fruit the moment they arrived.

"Thank you," he told her.

And she knew it was for the simple introduction to that one taste. What the Dark Prince did not know, she thought, her gaze flickering to the remainder of the fruit, was that she tasted it, like this, for the first time too. But that was too many words, too long a response. She said instead, "You're welcome."

And then, he leaned close. She held her breath. He bent down, his eyes focused on her lips. Self-consciously, she darted out her tongue to lick at her top lip. He stopped, his own mouth a hairsbreadth away from hers.

She wondered why she did not pull away. She could feel his heat radiating from his skin.

And he warmed her—like he was fire.

In hell, fire was the last thing you needed. And even then she could feel his heat working like magnet the way it drew her. To the extent that she could not tell who closed the last inch of gap between them. Yet the next thing she knew, his mouth closed over hers and his tongue ran a hot, slow swipe over her lips. She could taste the sweet juice on his tongue, and wondered if he could taste the same on her skin.

Blair heard the soft moan, realized it came from deep in her throat.

She lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck. Her fingers buried in the hair at his nape. She closed her eyes, floating in the heady scent and smell of him and that sweet fruit.

He lifted his lips. Slowly, sluggishly, her mind returned.

"Eat the chocolate."

He was the devil and temptation and she was trapped right in his hell, she realized.

She blinked up at him, told her brain over and over to work. Blair did not respond. The disappointment in his eyes was fleeting. He licked his lips. The hair on her arms finally prickled. Kisses never tasted just like that, and it was all in his desire to string her in. He then told her, "You know I could have melted it into your food."

"There's no food here," she pointed out coolly, despite the fact that the very idea unsettled her.

"Your drink then," he said.

"Why didn't you?"

And then suddenly, he was not so large, not so confident, not so brash. It happened the moment the question fell from her lips. His gaze fell and he looked down at the tiny puddle of juice on the floor. He said,"I'd rather you decided to stay by yourself."

But he had kissed her. Surely he knew that after that kiss, decisions were no longer reliable. She slowly stepped back from him. "I'm going to leave," she said.

"Back to your fiancé, fresh and excited after the proposal."

And it puzzled her, how he could know—trapped as he was in his tower, up so high he barely saw the earth. She did not know why, but her hand moved to his chin. She tipped his face up so she could look into his eyes. His skin burned her. And she said, "He's not my fiancé." His eyes lit up in curiosity. She added, "Not yet."

His nostrils flared. He informed her, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "He never will be."

She drew back. "That's what you think."

"It is," he agreed.

"You sound sure—"

And then her breath caught in her throat. He leaned close so that his lips almost touched her ear. His cheek touched her temple.

He said, "Because I'm inside you now. You can leave. Leave if you want, but I'll always be there. From now on, from the moment you kissed me, I was inside you."

She released a tremulous breath. Her eyes closed.

His image was burned in the back of her eyelids. Her eyes shot open. He was smirking down at her, the devil in his lair, like he knew exactly what she saw.

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: **I'm out of town for work, living out of a hotel right now. It's pretty difficult to update even with the wifi in the room. But let me know what you think. Make me smile in this strange city.

This should provide you with background on some of the other characters, and about our two.

**Part 8**

All his life, he had always been the best. In sports, in the eyes of his grandparents, in the silly rankings put forth by news magazines. Nate Archibald had been the White Knight and he had taken it to heart very early on. The day he met Blair Waldorf, in that sunny day in the courtyard, and she had fallen into his arms like a distressed angel, Nate knew he was going to be head over heels forever.

They were perfect together. Everyone said so.

And so when he woke up one day wondering if the path he had chosen in his life was wrong, and believing politics was not the end all and be all—she was still the hope at the end of his day.

When he learned from the woman beside him, in her eagerness to spill her discovery, that the entire reason for his family's being lay in Bart Bass' pocket, he had turned to Blair. The princess smiled, pushed back her hair and tucked it behind her ear. And then she sidled closer to him. He had tried. He opened his mouth to confess. But she had been beautiful and perfect and every inch flawless to him.

He was her White Knight.

Not the other way around.

So he succumbed to kisses that she shared, closed his eyes and drowned in her.

Where there was beauty, where there was light, where there was love—there would be Blair. All other secrets, whatever dark whispers there were about the Vanderbilts and the Archibalds, would have another audience. There was a woman, this woman, he thought silently, sitting beside him in the confines of the Chariot, hidden from all others, who was eager to share in the fermenting secret that was bound to ruin his name.

"How sure are you that your godmother can help?" Vanessa asked, directly to the point.

Her camera lens distracted him.

He could see his reflection, upside down.

"If there's anyone who can reach Bart Bass, it's her. The man is insane about her."

Vanessa, of course, could hardly match the concept to the Big Bad, the king of everything that moved and did not move in Manhattan.

"Even devils fall in love," Nate commented, seeing the look on the Vanessa's face.

But the devil he knew, with the bluster he showed in all the events where the rich and the famous gathered in his tower, with the quiet energy he chose to cast on Nate's princess, could not. Chuck Bass never learned what Nate did, never had what Nate was showered with.

Once upon a time, there was a little boy who was sent up to the Palace. It was punishment for breaking a nice jar that his mother treasured. Even while his father dragged him to the car, Anne Vanderbilt had wept at the prospect of what his child faced. Nate had been scared out of his wits, and marked every wall on the winding path with a marker he had kept in his pocket. The servants whispered about the Palace. It was where a little monster stayed, the little monster terrible enough he had killed his mother. And so Nate knew enough to leave markings on the wall, to follow on his way out once his father left. But the servants scrubbed them clean and he had been trapped.

"Nate—" Vanessa prompted. Nate blinked, his attention shifting from the dark corners in his brain to the curious dark eyes of the girl in front of him.

"My godmother gives me three gifts every year," Nate stated.

In her eyes, Nate knew, he was unattainable, a monarch, a hero, everything she hoped every man in her life would turn out to be—impossible. He could see it in the way her breath hitched, in the way she leaned towards him. He lived a life of privilege, one she could barely dream of.

"Really?" she asked. "Like what?"

"A Stallion," he said, referring to the large bike that he never rode, which sat parked in the garage waiting for a day that called for it. "Golden cufflinks," he added. And then he smiled, "A business."

Vanessa blinked.

"I was twelve." And then the smile faded. "This one is probably worth all three wishes for this year. I should forget about that European trip she promised me."

Trips anywhere outside the East Coast was something unattainable for her. He wondered how he would survive in the poverty that radiated from every fiber of the girl's cheap clothes. He wondered even if his skin would chafe if exposed to the manufactured clothes she wore.

"Why can't you just wait?" she asked in a softer voice. "At the most she'll be there for another day. I heard the guard over his Communicator."

The Chariot stopped just outside the van der Woodsen residence, and he opened the door on his side. Then, he went immediately to the other side to assist her out. The young woman was flustered, and he knew he was the cause. The etiquette that throbbed in his veins was unnatural to those who were not as privileged as he.

He answered, as they proceeded to the building, "You don't know Chuck like I do. He wants her," he shared, remembering the look on his face the night of the ball. Chuck had appeared like a little boy who had picked his new toy. His dark demeanor lifted with excited, made more brooding with intent. Even as a child, when Nate saw fit to boast about the new toy shop his godmother gave him, Chuck turned up to outdo him by purchasing a toy factory in Taiwan the next hour. "He gets everything he wants."

"And you don't?"

Nate's eyebrows furrowed. Even in his confusion, he still supported her with a hand on her elbow. They stepped into the elevator. "The difference is that she wants me too. She doesn't want Chuck."

Vanessa's camera had not been focused anymore, so she looked down to fix it. "That's it?" she prodded.

"I love her."

And they exited the elevator cab and proceeded towards the door. Nate knocked once, rapidly twice, then in slow short bursts of three.

While they waited, she asked, "Then what are you afraid of?"

His gaze flickered, and he considered the question. He shook his head, then straightened. "Maybe you should wait in the car."

Vanessa's eyebrows shot up. She opened her mouth to oppose his decision, then walked away instead.

Nate turned back to the door the moment it opened. His lips curved at the sight of the golden goddess that emerged. But his girlfriend was in danger, and he was nothing if not a savior. He was nobody until he was devoted to Blair, and she was flawless, pure, innocent.

Serena's lipstick was smeared over her lips like she had just been kissed.

"I need to speak with your mother," he stated, forcing away thoughts about what Serena could have been doing before his arrival.

Serena's hand reached up in an effort to fix her mussed hair. She blinked away sleepiness as she stood brazenly in her nightgown. Nate cleared his throat, then prompted, "Serena."

"Nate," she greeted. "My mom's not here. She's away with Bart."

The only hope he had built surrounded Lily van der Woodsen. He could see his entire rescue plan crumbling before him. It was unacceptable. And then his problem came tumbling from his lips. It was easy, so easy, a lot easier to spill to Serena. Since he started dating Blair, and became the White Knight, he had held it all close to his heart. Not once would Blair hear him speak of anything he could not do, or his problems, or anything he could not resolve on his own.

He understood her, knew her, studied her. He adored her. And he knew her enough to be what she needed—strong, unflappable. Enough to fulfill her dreams and fix all the problems in the world.

But to Serena, he could be vulnerable.

In Serena's eyes, he could see the concern. It warmed him, because she cared enough to be so concerned. He was grounded enough to know most of her reaction was towards her best friend. Even so, he took the time to bask in the look in her eyes.

"I'll find a way to contact them," she promised. And then, she opened the door and invited him in. Serena's arms folded over her chest. "But, Nate, you've got to trust her."

At the words, he turned, his cheeks growing warm at the memory. One moment, one humiliation, one thing that could completely destroy who he was.

Still, this was Serena, and he could say, "Like she trusted us?"

The blonde before him sighed, then reached up a hand to brush her thumb across his cheek. "There's a blemish on your face," she said softly. "That fleck of dirt. It ruins the entire look," she told him as she wiped it off.

He wondered why Vanessa did not notice it.

And then, gently, she added, "It was one mistake, Nate."

"She still doesn't know." He was going to be completely undone in her eyes. Nate was not certain he was ready for that. "Let me tell her."

And always, always, Serena could put into words what was in his mind. "You know her, Nate. I'm not afraid to tell her. But Blair has a whole universe in her head. This will shatter her." And then, she went straight to the point. "I don't love you. Do you love me?"

There was fleeting moment, right before he said the words, that he pictured Blair in his head. She was standing in the center of the ballroom, and he had only just offered to spend his life with her.

She said it. The way he would say it now.

"I don't know."

"Nate—"

He straightened, prepared to leave, ready to figure out a way if it took all his strength. He would go to his grandfather. Perhaps he knew a way. The chance was slim if any, but he could not give up so easily.

"You don't have to make it complicated," he told her. "I'm not sure I love you, but I know I love her. She knows it too. It's that simple."

~o~o~o~

Her lips tingled, and she was breathless.

They faces were mere inches apart. Lean a little closer, and they would be pressed together again.

She could feel it, exactly the way he said it. Her stomach swirled with impossibility, like he had cast a spell over her. Her arms loosened around his neck. Her hand crept down, to touch his shoulder, to slide onto his chest.

The Dark Prince had a heart, she thought. She could feel the thunderous beat under her palm. She held his gaze, studied his brown eyes and read—like a book. She could read him in his eyes.

"You want me," she realized. Her throat tightened. She swallowed, still tasting the nectar in her mouth. She would never taste the fruit again without going back to him, to this day, to this prison. Even now she was possessed with the urge to bend and taste the sheen from his lower lip. She held back, but continued, "It's that simple."

The words seemed to have offended him. For someone brash, assuming, for someone who had a flock of women waiting for him to choose them, he took offense so easily. He replied, "There is nothing simple about this."

She repeated, intently, because he needed to realize the base desires were simple, easily forgotten. Once he did, perhaps she would accept it too. Her fingers curled into his shirt, over where she felt his heart. "You want me."

His hand closed over hers. Slowly, purposefully, he dragged in a sickly slow motion their hands from his chest down to his gut. "I can feel something in here," he said, disgustedly. "Fluttering."

She repeated. "You want me."

And then his hands were on her hips. He pressed forward. Blair froze at the blatant display. He was pressed into her, so unabashedly. She froze at the motion. She moistened her lips. He was hard, obvious, pushing up against her.

"I want you," he admitted, his voice thick. "This is me wanting you. This is simple." Her brows furrowed. Blair pulled away, but he caught her hand and pressed it back on his gut. "There is nothing simple about this." And then he leaned, and she could smell the heady scent of mango still hanging over him. Her skin prickled at the sensation of his nose nuzzling into her ear.

Abruptly, she pulled away.

"There are a thousand other girls who want you," she stated.

Chuck remained where he stood. Blair wrapped her arms around herself, then stalked towards the couch. She walked past it, effectively putting the piece of furniture between them.

He watched her. His gaze warmed her in a room already so hot and stifling. She threw a look at the locked door, then glanced back at him. Cold washed over her when she spotted him still looking at her.

"I want you," he said again.

Her breath caught at the tone, because she knew he was not done.

"We both know I want you. The question is," he said smoothly, "do you want me?"

She stiffened, affronted by the question. "I want to leave."

It was the wrong answer, she realized. At her words, he snapped to attention, then stalked towards her, his gaze focused, not letting go, like he were predator to her prey. Blair held her breath as she saw him move closer and closer, rounding the couch until he was only a few feet away.

"Blair Waldorf—"

Her lips thinned. "This is the end of the conversation."

But he would pay no heed to that. "You want me."

"I want a lot of things," she snapped.

And then he was close enough to touch her cheek. She looked up, wondering if she could drown in him. She latched on to his eyes, just because it was so so different. The hand on her skin was hot, so so different. This was not Nate, of the life so certain and perfect there was never going to be any need to worry about the future. She had to remember that.

"Tell me," he urged.

This was Chuck Bass—who met her through blackmail, who had women waiting to spread for him, who may or may not have killed his mother. This was Chuck Bass—who the world despised enough that images of him as a monster drew millions of hits each week, who was hated enough that his father needed to imprison him to keep him safe.

Chuck Bass, who tasted of mango so sweet she would equate any other sweet taste in the world to the taste of his mouth.

She wanted to live in a castle high in the clouds; to look down at the whole world; to be a princess; to be with her one true love.

"I want to get out of here," she said.

Return to the world that waited for her out there. Everything Nate had to offer returned to her mind—a world of politics and privilege. She would be a wife, and she would have the most comfortable life in the whole world. He loved her, and she wanted to be loved.

Once upon a time, there was a princess who went asleep, a very deep sleep, she remembered her father telling her. Chuck's eyes bore into her, and his gaze bothered her, made her uncomfortable. Her stomach turned. Her hand flew up to touch the sensation that unsettled her.

And then, he offered, his breath teasing the shell of her ear, "Blair, I can make you feel alive."

Her head turned, and she could feel his breath against her cheek, against her lips now. Her eyes closed. Her lips parted. She stretched up, her muscles straining. Waiting.

Nothing.

Her eyes fluttered open, and he was right there, watching.

Waiting.

So she nodded, her eyes falling to his glistening lips.

"Say the words, Blair."

She knew what he wanted to hear, but instead she said, "Wake me up."

It was enough. His head moved down and he captured her lips. His mouth moved over hers. His fingers buried in her hair as he kissed her hard. Blair clutched at the front of his shirt.

"Mr Bass," she heard. A static sound, white noise. "Mr Bass, we have the security code from your father. The locks will disengage in two minutes."

tbc


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: **I'm still in Cebu on assignment. So the parts are coming in little spurts. Lol. When I get back to Manila, it should be better.

**Part 9**

They were like thunderclap. It was the sound of the simultaneous disengaging of the locks around them.

For the whole two minutes since the message, they stood in stationary silence, close together in the distance that did not exist between people who had only moments before been locked in a kiss. She looked up into his eyes, then her hands tightened in the front of his shirt. In response, his fingers in her hair released and ran down to her neck. She shivered at the heat from his skin.

For a brief moment his thumbs brushed her throat.

Her lips parted, and she rose on her tiptoes then pulled him down simultaneously.

She understood why the world was so afraid of him. She should be so afraid, but he tasted like no one, tasted her like no one ever did.

"You're free," he whispered, sullen, as if it were the worst in the world.

And that she barely heard. Or that she chose to ignore.

She pitched forward, abruptly, thoughtlessly, that he had to catch her by the waist. Kisses, kisses, they were heady. She was in the clouds. Kisses upon kisses. More and more until she was breathless with kisses.

"_Once upon a time," she heard her father say in her head, "there lived the most beautiful princess in the world."_

His hot mouth was insistent, branding kisses on her face, up her jawline until she felt his tongue slither up to her earlobe. Her head fell back and a little moan escaped from her.

"_Up high in the clouds," her father had said._

She spied the slow motion of the windows sliding open to reveal the glass walls. They were so high she saw nothing from here. As the sun broke through the ever widening slits, bathing the once dark room in stark, honest light.

"_Until one day, something went very wrong," came Harold's memorable voice._

"I've wanted you for so long," she heard Chuck whisper in her ear. She cupped his face in her hands and pulled his lips back on hers. She breathed harshly, and she slowly pushed him back, almost reluctantly, so she could see him now.

In the daylight sun—

With his lips bruised from her kisses, his hair mussed from her fingers, his eyes intent and boring into her.

He was no Knight, no savior, no angel.

She caught herself. She shook her head, almost violently. Blair stepped backwards. Her hand rose to her neck and she felt the sticky nectar that had dried in patches on her skin. She swallowed and still tasted him in her mouth.

"I have to go home."

And he asked, "Why?"

Blair rushed to the glass wall that should overlook Manhattan, the way they said in all the stories it would. In the Dark Prince's lair you could see his whole realm spread below him. They were pieces in his chess game, they said. He would stand and look down at them all, move them around to his pleasure. From that vantage she knew she could catch a glimpse of her home. With a glimpse, she was sure, the worry over her parents would somewhat abate.

And all she could see below her were clouds.

"There's nothing to see," she said upon realization.

She felt him move, knew the moment he was standing right behind her. His heat called to her, and she felt her body move very instinctively back a little, managed to keep herself from leaning back so that her entire body would touch him.

"There is nothing to see from up here," he told her. And then, almost as if he knew her own mind, his hands closed over her upper arms. The contact sent a thrill of pleasure, like a lightning bolt, through her.

There was magic here. Perhaps not the magic that everyone thought, that was documented in the Archives, that was painted and sung by artists who knew not enough to distinguish between art and reality.

The best art did not reflect life. It distorted life.

It had never been more true than now.

"There's a light," he said.

Blair listened carefully, felt her heart creep up from her chest to her throat. She did not know why, but even before he continued the tears already gathered in her eyes. It was his voice. It was the naked emotion that cowered behind the guarded voice. "What light?"

"There's nothing to see up here, except for a lone light." And then his arm rose. He pointed to an area to the right down below. "Over there," he shared. "At night, since I was young, there has been one light that I see."

When she was young she looked up at his, ever permanent, never dying.

"But when it's darkest, it flickers out," he told her. "Don't leave me."

There was magic here, she thought. It was inside him; it radiated from him; it called her to him. It was not an insidious thing that would jump out in the darkness and eat her. It was not the black magic of a monster lying in wait.

It was a light in the dark night that no one could ever extinguish.

She spun around so she could see his face. "Do you love me?"

He frowned. His gaze moved from the blank clouds and to her. "I don't know what that means."

And the nightlight that never died flickered in the stagnant room. Over his shoulder, she saw the door behind him open. Blair stepped to the side.

And there he stood, stepping into the light of the room from the shadow. Her White Knight, perfect and eager, concerned and strong and ready.

"Blair, are you alright? I made it back as fast I could," he said. The Palace guards who had accompanied her up quickly walked past him and assessed the room.

The Dark Prince's reply still rang in her ears. She hurried towards her Knight, favoring her sore ankle. The farther she drew from Chuck, the nearer she grew to Nate, the less the punishing heat. She stopped a foot away from Nate, who closed the gap between them and drew her into his arms.

"Back?" she managed softly.

"I was here, but we didn't have the code. So I searched for it, had to go elsewhere. I found Lily and—"

"All that?" she gushed. "You did all that."

"I love you," he answered, as if it explained it all.

And to Blair Waldorf, to the princess whom all the girls envied, to the daughter who basked in the love of a father, it did.

She glanced back at Chuck, who stood in front of the window, now no more than a silhouette with the sunlight streaming behind him. He was a figure, dark, imposing still, but drawing back. She could not see his face, not anymore. In the comfortable warmth of Nate's protective embrace, the Dark Prince was merely a memory.

She licked her lips, and they tasted of fruit and a hint of brandy.

She felt Nate bury his nose in her hair, the way he often did. It was a show of affection. He touched her hair and pushed a lock behind her ear.

"Nate, let's go," she urged him.

"You smell faintly of—what is that?"

Mangoes.

Nate frowned, then hazarded a guess. "Is that vanilla?"

She swallowed. Her eyes moved to the shadowed figure of the Dark Prince. "Mangoes," she admitted.

"Mangoes," Nate repeated. He looked towards Chuck.

And then she heard Chuck again, for the first time since the response that she would remember every night from now on. And now, the Dark Prince said, "Mangoes. Sweet and dripping, with the soft flesh that you could wrap your tongue around. I hear you enjoy them too."

"That's not how I remember them."

"I'm sure," returned the Dark Prince.

And then, Nate's hand tightened around hers. He then released her hand, then walked towards Chuck Bass. Blair watched, and could not hear, but the image of the two standing against the light was odd. Even then, she could see Nate's face, intent, almost pleading.

And she could see none of the Dark Prince's face at all.

And then Nate strode back to her, brave and firm. He feared no one, not even Chuck. His arm wrapped around her waist, and he led her out to the door. Blair looked back towards Chuck, but he had turned his back to her now.

That quickly.

So easily could he forget.

She allowed Nate to take her to the elevator. It was her imagination, perhaps, brought on by an unuttered wish. Nate's hand was around hers as they entered. Just before the doors closed, she thought she saw him look away from the guards and at her.

"You're exhausted," Nate said when they stepped off the elevator.

They stood by the Palace doors. She could see the Chariot waiting outside. The last time she had been inside was the night after she had refused Nate's proposal. Even after the shame of it all, he had offered to bring her home.

She looked at his clear blue eyes. They were eyes that could not lie. She could not hide the truth from eyes so noble.

"Nate, when I was there—"

He placed her hand on his arm."It's alright."

"I should tell you," she said.

"Anything that happens in the Palace stays in the Palace," he assured her.

And there was a flicker in his noble blue eyes. Uncertaintly, for a brief moment. A flush of guilt, for longer.

"Nate?" she prompted.

"We won't talk about it. I understand." And then, he confessed. "I know Chuck Bass. We don't have to address this, Blair."

"Can I live with that?" And then she wondered why it was a question to him, when it was all about her.

"We will."

And then he stepped forward, out into the light. She was bathed in the sun that she had missed. Blair hesitated, just before they entered the Chariot. She extended her arm, saw the bright light shine on her skin. She waited. Waited until it burned.

Warm, she thought. It could not compare to the heat of another person's skin on hers.

Even the sun was not hot enough.

She glanced up at the towering building, but like always, when down here in the world, one could not see.

"Come on," Nate urged. "Go in. It's bright out. We don't want you to get burned," he cautioned.

"No," she agreed. "We don't want that."

"I'll take you home," he offered. "Your parents are worried about you."

Blair entered the Chariot, and she sighed at the familiar surroundings, the cool temperature across the aircondition vent. She settled in and burrowed into Nate's side. He dropped a kiss on her hair. She placed a hand on his chest. "Thank you, Nate," she said. "I could always count on you."

Her White Knight would save her from anything. In that, out of all the things in the world, she was certain. From the day she had fallen down the steps and he caught her, to the day she closed her eyes for the last time. From the first kiss, to the last. Nate Archibald would always be her savior.

"I will be here, Blair. Always have. I always will."

She nodded, leaned her head on his shoulder. He smelled like champagne, she thought. The kind that Lily van der Woodsen kept in stock. It was wonderful and bubbly and light, and it smelled like celebration. Chuck had smelled like the brandy he had pushed towards her to dull away the pain after she had already hurt herself.

She flexed her sore ankle. Nate Archibald loved her enough that she had never twisted her ankle when she was with him.

"Go on and sleep," he told her. "I'll wake you up when we get to your house." She yawned. "You'll be safe with me."

_Harold cleared his throat, then said with a grin, "You're sleepy, princess."_

"_You didn't finish the story."_

"_We'll continue tomorrow," he promised her._

_She was sleepy, and her eyes were crossing and she could see double her daddy now. But something had been very wrong, and she wanted to know what it was. "What went wrong, daddy?"_

"_The princess went to sleep, a very deep sleep. Only her true love could wake her up."_

tbc


	10. Chapter 10

Part 10

She danced in his arms—such a perfect thing. She floated like she were upon the clouds, light on her feet, a princess with magical shoes that could carry her to heaven. She danced, twirled, her dress blossoming around her like every bit of dream.

She danced in his arms—such a perfect thing in the embrace of such a perfect man.

His stance was regal, royal the way the Vanderbilts were in all the portraits that lined the mansion. Nate was an heir to power and pride. One day, should he ever cut himself, Blair would not be surprised if blue blood pulsed from the wound.

Everything an Archibald touched was gold, people around her whispered. Everyone knew it to be true. What flailing business Anne Vanderbilt inherited flourished; what common name she had had taken when she married grew in fame. Everything became gold.

When Nate kissed Blair, she became gold.

Precious. Desired. Cool.

She was a block of gold.

She danced in his arms, her feet growing heavier. She could hear the heel of her shoes hit the marble floor of the impressive mansion. The ballroom was large, so wide, so full of people, so public to her. She danced in his arms, and she was a perfect thing to behold. They looked at her, watched her, adored her—no one wanted to be her.

Her steps stuttered; her steps staggered.

"My grandfather spoke with me," he told her, sharing the news that would affect them both. "When we get married, he will give it all to us. All of this, Blair. All of this will be yours."

She was too grounded, too low in the world when all she wanted to do was float.

Once upon a time there lived a beautiful princess. The whole of Manhattan sought her smile from the day that the powerful Vanderbilt family announced her as their own. The handsome Archibald, the New York-based heir to the political empire of the Vanderbilt clan, would marry Blair Waldorf, they said. It jumped to their eyes from the front page of the lifestyle section of their Sunday newspaper. Since then, it seemed, the haughty, not quite there, brunette, who always seemed to be caught by the cameras looking up at the sky was the permanent content of every Sunday issue.

Sometimes they caught her in deep conversation with the van der Woodsen's rebel daughter. They had seemed quite close. So close, in fact, older photographs of Serena van der Woodsen seemed to appear from the archives so the hot new topic could be encircled in the forgotten shots.

Sometimes the cameras showed her standing by the pond in Central Park, tearing small bits of loaf and throwing bread to the ducks. The day after the snapshots were released, the political machinery of the Vanderbilt party had spun the image into a version for the headlines—zoomed in on the oblivious princess and captioned: Who We Are—Feeding the Hungry, Providing for the Needy.

Sometimes, sometimes there were stolen shots—the best and the ones that cost the most. The best shots of the princess sold like hotcakes when you could capture her with Nathaniel Archibald. The pictures were harmless, and they were advertisement, so no one uttered a protest. She graced the papers with a far-off look and perfectly coiffed, like everything that draped over her body was as expensive as the Vanderbilt heir.

Lucky, lucky girl.

Once upon a time there lived a princess who was in every picture that mattered. All the girls turned the page to where she was and she was always lovely. Her father had said she was beautiful, and her mother made certain all her clothes were styled to perfection. She was on the arm of an eligible man, and one day soon she would be part of New York's best.

Once upon a time, there was a princess that everyone admired. But the princess did not know how to smile.

In every one of the pictures, in the twenty four weeks that she graced the pages of the papers, there was no smile. Lucky girl that she was, Nathaniel Archibald's fiancé did not know how to smile.

And still, they took her pictures. And still, they called her fortunate.

The night in the theater was another chance. Even before they stepped out of the Chariot, they had known. She had turned to Nate and he had looked at her from underneath the unruly hair that fell over his eyes. Her hand raised to pat the French braid that Dorota had insisted for her hair.

"You look nice," he had assured her. And then he brushed a cool finger at the outer corner of her eye. "Just a smudge. Your eye must be a little moist." In the dry cold air inside his Chariot, it was suspect. "All better," he told her.

"Is it?" she wondered.

"It doesn't show anymore," he answered.

And that was more believable.

When the door opened and he stepped out, he was flooded with light. Nate gleamed under the flashing lights like he was born to shine before a crowd. Someday soon he would stand behind a podium and declare his place in his political dynasty, and Manhattan would vote for him. It was his charming smile, the unassuming way he held himself up, the way his face was carved like it was made to grace currency bills. Someday Nate would be.

And then he turned to her, to hold his hand out, to offer her assistance so she could climb out of the Chariot. He leaned forward, and the lights were all behind him. With his face half hidden in the car, shadowed and facing only her, she caught his expression. Very briefly. So briefly he could deny and she would not challenge him.

It was relief. It was dissatisfaction.

Yet still, love.

Only one was not new.

Someday, she would understand him. She placed a hand in his and allowed him to pull her out towards the flashing bright lights. With both her feet on the ground she leaned forward, and his hands rested on her hips. And then, quickly, before they even fell into the natural curve of her body, he had drawn them away. One palm rested on the small of her back while the other held her by her elbow.

And then, curiously enough, borne of the time they had spent together, they turned to the crowd at the same time. Blair looked around without seeing anything but white light. Blind, she took comfort in the hands that held her. Blind, she turned her head to give them all a chance to snap their picture. Blind—

This was life as a Vanderbilt wife.

This would be ever after with Nate.

Blind—

And then they were moving. The floor underneath her was covered with carpet, perhaps red. She knew enough with the silent way her heels hit the floor, the way her steps were padded, and there was no impact. Through it all he held her, led her to the door.

And then finally, when her vision slowly grayed, then returned, when her eyes had adjusted to the darker, friendlier inside of the theater house, Blair released a breath of relief. She turned to look up at Nate.

"You'll get used to it," he assured her.

And then he turned away, to look towards the stairs. A box, she knew. The Vanderbilt box. The place to be seen. Reluctantly, but willingly—and oh had she gone insane—she placed her hand on his arm. They made their way up. The steps were elegant, with the backlight lending a yellowish dim lighting to the pathway. And he was there.

So they sat, collected and regal, and even then she could see the small flashes from the audience seats down below.

"Nate, can we do something about this?" she finally complained.

And then she saw his face. He looked across the wide chasm, the gap between their box and the one by the other side. He had a grin, a comfortable one. He raised a hand in a gesture of greeting.

"Serena and Eric are in the other box. Look. They're waving."

Her best friend seemed to be looking through opera binoculars. Blair smiled, then waved her fingers at the siblings.

When the lights dimmed, Blair turned her attention to the stage. Out came the ballerinas that waved their long limbs over their heads. Blair kept her gaze steady on the dancers when the male ballet dancer, with a fake beard and white hair, interpreted a woodcarver on the stage.

Nate's hand over hers was cool, but present.

And here, he was the light. He was the light that hid so much, when light should reveal all. "Nate," she said finally. In the cloak of darkness, when no one was watching them, it would be easy. "Nate, I'm so sad," she confessed.

And because he was the savior, and because he loved her, he turned. Away from the other box, where she knew he looked. His brows furrowed and he placed his palm against her cheek. He drew closer, and he grew close. Close enough to see her, not desperately so. She could not even feel his breath on her lips.

"I knew this was a bad idea," he said. "I should have picked a happier play."

In the background, the ballet theater still continued. Below them, the actor moved woodenly across the stage, then drew close to the pretty, glittering blue ballerina who twirled around and around and around. And the boy moved, smoother, smoother, then flexed.

A collective aww; the audience was putty in the hands of the performers, or the audience pretended to marvel because it was society and it was polite to the arts.

"Wait," he said, seeming to remember now. "This is Pinnochio."

Her eyes danced as she read him, tried to determine where he was. And then she shook her head, straightened. Inches farther and it was colder. "He thinks he's a real boy," she finally said, then turned back to the ballet.

"Isn't it silly?" he said. "Ridiculous. He's made of wood." She knew it was to make her smile, but sounded crass to her burdened ears. Nathaniel Archibald was never crass, yet his voice distorted in her head. In her heart, instead she heard the smooth cool voice of another man, whose breath would be hot but chilling as it hit her skin.

When his answer frustrated her, she knew it showed. She never did try to hide from Nate. He was her knight, and he accepted anything and everything. They were meant to be together.

Everyone thought so.

"He's made of wood, but the blue fairy turned him into a real boy. Pay attention, Nate."

~o~o~o~o

_The dark and the light._

_She came to him, like the light in the dark. She was a vision that danced in the back of his eye—brilliant and seething and hidden and sparkling. She came to him, like a wash of brightness in his otherwise shadowed existence._

_The door opened an inch, then two, and with the widening of the crack he was flooded with light. The Dark Prince straightened from his recliner. When he saw her, walking towards him with her hair in lovely curls falling down her back, gliding a path towards him, he was breathless._

_The door closed behind her. And all was black. With one hand he drew the curtains back so that the moonlight and the stars would light her way._

"_You came back," he said softly, disbelievingly. _

_She had come to him once, like air fresh and cooling in the stifling walled grandeur. Fresh and magical, like all the gifts he had ever received rolled into a package of stubborn beauty. She had come to him, pulsing life in his arms when everything he held before was yielding and mechanical. She moved; she breathed; she glared._

"_I can't stay away."_

_And now she walked towards him, the answer to every one of his desires. He sucked in his breath. When she looked at him, she smiled. It was a secret smile, one he had longed for. In his solitude he consumed images of her like they were nourishment. For every photograph released, he had stared at the image of the girl who left, searched for a trace of her smile and found none. And this time, when she saw him, when she recognized how he held his breath, she smiled. He moved closer. He had missed her so. He placed a hand on the bright yellow sleeve of her blouse. _

_At the touch of his fingertips, the cloth underneath his skin turned brown, mottled into gray and then sank into black. And then, he watched in morbid fascination as the surrounding cloth blackened. Sooner, her clothes turned black. All of it black. Her lips parted at the sight, in surprise, in fear—he could not tell. _

"_Do you love me?" she said in her small voice. _

_He drew his hand away as if burned. He would have stepped back, but she cupped his face with her wonderful, precious hands. And he was wrapped in her fragrance. She jumped forward, planted a kiss on his lips. And he was helpless to do much else than part his own. His hand crept up to bury in the thick dark tresses. _

_He closed his eyes._

_When finally, she melted in his arms and their mouths parted, Chuck looked down at her face. "Do you love me?" she asked again. "Because I think I love you." Her lips were bloodless, as if the heat that seared his mouth had drawn the life from her. Her skin was pale, her mouth grew black within moments._

_Once upon a time, there was a queen so beautiful and lovely. And when she grew large with child, she grew ill and pained while the very child she nourished became toxic, pure poison inside of her._

_Everything the Dark Prince touched, died. Everything the Dark Prince loved, the Dark Prince killed._

_It was true for his mother, true for his father's love._

"_You make me feel alive," she confessed._

_In his arms, where she had leapt so trustingly and eagerly, where now she hung limp and boneless, Blair Waldorf's lips curved. It was wordless, her smile. No one could ever describe it. But he remembered the photographs of the perfect, golden couple—revered and adored and admired, captioned so highly by New York City papers that covered the affair since the Vanderbilt heir rescued her from the Palace—and knew she had not smiled at Nathaniel the way she did at him now._

_The closer she was to him, the longer he touched her, the paler was her skin, the darker were her lips. The longer she was in his arms, the more she faded._

"_Look at you," he said. Two days he had known her. Two days over the lifetime of stories she must have heard about him. "You need to stay away from me."_

"_Tell me," she urged._

"_The stories were true. I destroy everything I touch—"_

"_Tell me."_

_He drew in a breath. Cautiously, he traced a tentative finger to her chin. She winced, and he saw the skin curdle underneath his. His heart raced at the sight. He looked down at his hand as if it betrayed him._

"_I don't care," she managed. "Tell me you love me. I love you."_

_And then softly, apologetically, he managed, "That's too bad. I can't—"_

_She wrapped her arms around her neck, pulled herself up, closer to him, so she could kiss him. And then, she jerked in his arms, and he could feel the short cry in his core. She burst in his arms. Before his very eyes, Blair Waldorf disintegrated into ash and dust._

_And she was all over him, drifting down and seeping into his black sweater, creeping into his skin, coating over him until all he could breathe was what remained of her. _

Chuck Bass shot up from the recliner, gasping for breath. He tore through the room with his eyes, found the room the same as the empty space he had stumbled into earlier. Beside him, on the table, gleamed the same potent scotch he had tried to drown in after seeing the photograph of the Vanderbilt ring gracing Blair's finger as the two held hands on the way to the theater.

He stood up and looked out the glass walls, down at the city below where he could see nothing but dots of light. He saw the reflection against the glass wall when the door opened. He froze, fearful that his nightmare would come to life. The crack opened wider, and he slowly turned around.

He was disappointed and relieved when it was his father who stepped inside.

"Chuck, I hear from your guards that you've discussed leaving the Palace."

Slowly, Chuck nodded his head. "I'm looking for something."

"We can have anything brought to you."

"I want to look for it on my own, dad."

"Chuck, you know why I keep you here. The world can come to you. The world comes to you every time you want it to."

Chuck turned away, looked down below and sought to find the single light that mattered. But it was not there. It was never there anymore.

"This is about the incident," his father surmised. "Forget about it, son. Leave them be. The Vanderbilts—"

"I don't care," Chuck protested.

"Fine. Do you want her hurt?" Chuck did not answer. "Because you know she will be hurt." Bart nodded. "Then I will have her brought back."

His father walked away. Finally, Chuck called. "Never mind, dad. Keep her away."

tbc


	11. Chapter 11

**Part 11**

"Such a perfect thing," Mr Vanderbilt called her. "What a perfect little thing," he had described her.

Blair Waldorf's wedding day drew to a close like an impending force, unrelenting, unstoppable, no retreat—a powerful, expected day. Every day, more and more of the political powers came to play. They would arrive in style, pose for photographs, then marvel at the beauty that the Vanderbilts were to welcome to their dynasty.

Every night she graced the dinner table, arriving on Nate's arm in another perfect gown.

One of those nights Nate lifted her hand to his lips, and he smiled, said 'I love you' near her ear. His breath was cool and refreshing, like peppermints floated inside of him.

"My grandfather sent up a gift for you," he told her.

Blair looked towards the door just as it opened. One of the Vanderbilt maids stepped in holding up a flat box that was painted with a coating so shiny, it seemed like Vanderbilt gold. Blair reached out a hand, and then fisted it, hesitating. Nate chuckled, then took the box in his hands.

"He said it reminds him of you," Nate continued.

Blair watched intently as Nate cracked open the lid of the box. Very slowly he pulled up the cover and revealed to her the gleaming gold of the studded tiara. It was then that she placed her fingers on top of it, felt the cool, hard metal in her hand.

"It's gorgeous," she said of the little arches and crafted carvings where tiny diamonds winked back.

"Just like you," her fiancé said generously.

And then Blair jumped a bit when Nate shut the lid, and the sparkle was gone. The box gleamed, and now just a bit duller to her eyes after the spectacle of the tiara.

"He wants you to wear it to the wedding, to hold your veil in place. What do you think?"

But she had been his fiancé for more weeks than she cared to admit, and knew by now he did not expect a reply. On the grand day, she would wear the tiara, discard all the jewelry she had planned to wear because it would not match the grand display of wealth atop her head. On that day, she would be every bit of how she was being written on the releases that were scheduled to go out on their wedding day.

"You're so lucky," he told her.

She was lucky. She had heard it from so many mouths, so many times, that she almost had herself convinced. And still, she nodded, looped her arm around his because this was the man she would spend her whole life being loved by. "Tell me why I'm lucky, Nate."

The request had become a habit, and Nate had taken it as just one more ritual that lovers had. "Because you're you," he said, and it was sweet, and wonderful, and music to her ears. "Because you're Blair, and everyone loves you."

And that was when it hurt, and she cherished the sharp pain that the words drove into her heart.

"And because," he said, and at this time—she memorized the ritual by now—he would give her a reason that was new, one that he only just thought of, one that he had planned for, "you have a best friend who has a special day planned for you."

She paused, looked up at Nate's bright eyes and asked, "Serena?" She did not miss the warmth with which his eyes crinkled at the way the name played on her tongue.

He nodded. "Your maid of honor asked me to drop you off at the coffeehouse at the corner of 5th and Main."

So close.

Too close.

And so reluctantly she had gone, with a kiss on Nate's lips, with a nod, with a squeeze of his hand. Blair walked almost unsteadily towards the coffeeshop while the Palace loomed in the background. She refused to look up, because just by her luck the sky would clear up and the clouds would vanish. And from countless stories of distance she would find herself looking straight up and into the eyes of the man who proved Nate a liar.

Not everyone loved her. Not, in particular, one she needed so desperately.

Serena came, like the flurry of heady fragrance and sequins, grabbed her arm and greeted her. "B, I'm so happy you came!"

And right there on the street, avoiding the towering building with much effort, she replied, "Did you really expect me not to come when you assigned Nate Archibald to bring me?"

And at that, Serena's blinding smile dropped down a watt or two. But then, the blonde perked up and told her, "Well you're not going to regret it. I planned the perfect day for you."

Perfect. No less, of course, than she deserved.

And Serena looped their arms together. She pointed to where Blair did not look. "We're celebrating the last day of your singlehood with a bachelorette party at the Palace!"

And then Serena was walking, briskly, surprisingly quick given the stilettos that seemed like stilts at her feet. Blair felt herself being dragged, forced to look, building up a fear in her throat with every step they took. Closer and closer they drew to the Palace, passing by the glass windows of the shops that lined the street. Her eyes widened as she watched her and her best friend's reflection, nothing the sparkling statue that Serena was, wondering how she herself grew frumpier and frumpier with every shop they passed.

Finally, she dug her heels to the street and protested, "No!"

Serena stopped, frowned at her. "Why not?"

Blair thrust up her chin. She glanced at the hotel and glared at the darkened tint of the windows. She saw her reflection on the shop door, then narrowed her eyes. Nate had allowed her to go to her bachelorette party in the pitiful excuse of a dress she had on. It was a new dress, from one of the young, lesser known designers, chic and ladylike and exactly her style.

But Serena gleamed in her dress, ready for a party, prepared for a night of careless fun.

She had two choices—go home and retreat or do something so unexpected, so spectacular, that she would be remembered and the Dark Prince's eyes would bleed black crystalline tears.

"Do you have a wedding invitation on you?" she asked.

Slowly, her best friend nodded. "I have it in my bag because I don't expect to make it all the way home after tonight."

Blair handed her purse to Serena. "Put it inside my bag, then wait here."

She turned on her heel.

"What are you doing, Blair?" Serena called out, her voice hushed, careful about being overheard. Eyes and ears were everywhere, especially when you were with the bride of the biggest wedding of the year.

"You don't expect me to enter the Palace looking so drab, do you?" Blair threw back.

And then she entered the boutique and searched through the displays, pulling down a complicated sheer black shift and handing it to the sales assistant that followed her. Blair plucked a pair of black gartered stockings. Through the store, she foraged until she emerged from the dressing room dressed and, facing the full length mirror—so far from herself but feeling more like Blair than she ever had in her entire life.

From behind her, the sales assistant helped her to the thin sheer black overcoat and belted it around her waist. "Now it's complete," the woman said.

Not perfect, Blair thought. But complete.

Exactly what she needed.

"Send me the bill," she said.

And the woman knew her well enough to nod, then write down Mrs Archibald on the receipt. Blair plucked the pen from her hand and scratched out the name, then signed her own.

She stepped out of the store with a skip in her step. Serena's brows shot up to hr forehead at the sight. She grinned, then waved at Blair's outfit. "This is a new look."

And she still cared enough about her friend to ask, "What do you think?"

"You look more confident," Serena managed. "Less Blair. More Blair." She shrugged. "I don't know. Are you ready?"

"I am now," Blair answered. She took her bag from Serena and walked down the street.

At the entrance of the Palace, she paused. Her eyes met those of the guard that had assisted her to Chuck's floor. She drew a deep breath, then entered. She waited at the center of the lobby while Serena checked in for their reservation. Blair looked around until she spotted the camera. She stared straight into it, then turned away when Serena waved her over.

"We have a function room reserved for dinner and games," Serena told her.

"Games?" Blair repeated.

"It's your bachelorette party! Of course there are games." Serena continued on about her plan for the night. Blair entered the decorated room and was greeted by friends from school, by cousins she had never met.

She opened the last box from the pile and lifted up the sexy camisole that Serena had given her. A friend from school commented on the color, and another complimented the cut.

"It's very sexy."

"That's how lingerie is supposed to look like. She's not a virgin," another said.

And she flushed. The very word flooded her mind with memories of hot skin against her, of warm breath playing by her ear, of a searing mouth on hers. His tongue was slick and overwhelming, and she had wanted to feel it on her—

"Are you?"

"There's nothing wrong with that."

"Nate—"

A cool hand on her thigh, a gentle caressing massage. A kiss on her jawbone and a hand that cupped her breast.

She shook her head, pasted a forced smile on her face. "Don't call us on our honeymoon," she answered instead.

"Blair," Serena said, breaking into the conversation. She held up a small box to Blair, wrapped only in a black glossy paper that pinned with a gold ribbon. "I thought we opened everything. Here's a last one." She glanced at the card. "Palace Management." Serena smirked. "I didn't know they gave personal gifts."

Blair reached for the box, saw the slight tremor of her hand, then fisted her hands on her lap. "It's corporate America," she answered. "They have all sorts of gimmick." And then, she said, "Why don't you open it?"

"It's your gift," Serena insisted, thrusting the box at her friend.

Blair snatched the box from Serena's hand, then tore at the wrapper. She dropped the ribbon to the floor. There was a small box inside, unlabelled. She opened the box and lifted a gray bottle of what appeared to be perfume.

"Generic?" Penelope retorted.

"I don't think the Palace would give the bride of Nate Archibald generic perfume," Nelly shared. "I mean, look at that bottle. It doesn't look generic."

Blair uncapped the bottle and sprayed some on her wrist. It was almost like any designer perfume, vanilla and oils and exotic flowers. But it was on the third whiff that she stopped, the third time she breathed that she knew just how generic it was.

And then Serena grabbed her wrist and sniffed. "Hmmm… that's different." She straightened, then decided. "Is that… mangoes?"

"Who on earth would put mango scent on designer perfume?" Penelope asked.

Blair stood up, then grabbed her purse. "I'm going to the bathroom." She left the room and walked towards the elevator.

"Blair! This way."

She turned and saw Serena waving at her. "I saw one this way."

"This one's closer," Serena informed her.

Blair's grip tightened around the bottle of perfume. She opened her mouth.

"Come on, Blair," Serena urged, holding out her hand. "Nate's been texting me and checking up on you."

Blair glanced at her watch. It was almost nine. It was only nine.

Serena assured her, "I've been able to get him off our backs, but I'm afraid he's going to just pop up and sweep you off into the Chariot anytime now."

Blair glanced back towards the elevator. "What time?"

"B, honey, what's wrong?"

Serena made her way towards her. Blair clutched her bag closer. When Serena was right in front of her, Blair grasped her friend's hand. "I need your help."

"Of course," Serena said immediately.

"You don't even know what I need—"

"Of course," Serena repeated firmly.

"I'll be gone for a bit. I have something I need to do."

"And it can't wait?"

"I have to do it before I get married tomorrow," Blair answered in a rush. "If anyone looks for me, or Nate comes to pick me up—shall him."

Serena nodded. "How long will you be gone?"

And then Blair wrapped her arms around her best friend. "If I do this right, I'm not coming back, S."

At that, Serena sucked in her breath. She returned Blair's hug. "You're scaring me."

"Don't be scared, S. I'm awake. I'm alive. I need to stay this way."

"Good luck," Serena told her.

Blair pulled away, then nodded. "You'll hear from me. You're my sister, S. No matter what."

And then with a giant breath, she turned, fled towards the elevators, ran past the ones that would not reach so high, so far up where she wanted to be. The guard, the familiar guard, was right there. Blair pressed the button for the very last one.

The endless ride was even longer now. She tapped her foot on the floor of the elevator car. Blair watched the numbers until the moving numbers on the LCD made her dizzy. And then she faced only the elevator door. She lifted her wrist to her nose and smelled.

The elevator stopped, dinged, and then the doors opened. Blair walked up towards the door and pushed it open.

She found him drenched in the darkness of the suite, almost like every dream she had. He faced the glass walls as he looked down at Manhattan and saw only rooftops. He noticed her come in, because his gaze met hers on the reflection on the glass wall.

When he saw her, she could imagine all sorts of emotions on his face, imagine there was love, imagine there was hate, imagine that the moment she stepped back inside his suite, she just fulfilled every dream he ever had.

But he did not stir from his seat. Instead, she heard reverberate through the suite, "What are you doing here?"

Her throat was tight, but still she cleared it and managed, "I came by to give you this."

She made her way across the carpeted floor. As she grew closer to him, as she walked deeper into the suite, she felt the walls almost seem to close in on her. It was as if the world grew smaller and smaller the closer she was to Chuck Bass.

She took the envelope from her purse, then held it out to him.

He did not turn to reach for it, so she tapped his shoulder with it. He cringed, pulled away as if the envelope was toxic.

"I don't need to see that."

"Why not?" she inquired softly.

"I know what it is. It's your wedding invitation. My father received a copy. I had his secretary burn it." He chuckled. "Don't worry. They'll still let him in. No one denies a Bass entrance anywhere."

Blair tossed the wedding invitation to the table beside him. "How would you know? You never leave this place."

"Then you know now not to expect me in tomorrow's shindig," he retorted.

Blair shook her head, then turned away. She walked towards the door again to leave. She reached for the knob, then found hot skin covering her own—his hand over hers, stopping her from twisting the handle open. She almost sobbed out loud with the contact.

And then her back was against the door, the knob digging into the small of her back. And he was on her, over her, overwhelming and crowding.

"Chuck—"

"Don't marry him. You don't belong with him."

Her hands rose to wrap around his neck. She clutched the bottle still on her hand, and her wrist still radiated the scent. He drew a breath, turned his head for another. "I will remember that smell forever," he told her. "Lighthouse. I call it Lighthouse."

"I love it," she said.

"I would have it by your name, but that will kill me." His hand wrapped around her arm and he brought her wrist to his nose. "I could breathe this forever."

"Then do," she urged. She placed a hand on his cheek. "I'm not happy, Chuck."

"You will never belong with him," he repeated.

She nodded. There was no argument there. When she was this close to him, she could never belong with anyone else. She drew close, then suggested in a firm tone, "Then take me. Take me now. Take me with you. Take me away."

"I'll destroy you," he said mournfully.

"Then destroy me," she persuaded him. "Better destroyed than living like I'm dead, feeling nothing close to this." Reluctantly, she pulled away. Blair rushed over to the glass cabinet, where the gold dusted chocolates used to sit. She grabbed the case, then opened it. It was empty. She narrowed her eyes, then turned to him. "Where are they?"

"I gave them away," he answered. "I gave them to every other woman who's been here with me since you left."

She drew back, stung.

"My advice to you is not to marry Nate. But I'm not taking you, Blair."

"Then what do you want?" she demanded.

"Certainly not you."

She looked at him, her heart breaking at the words, feeling betrayed. She lifted the gray bottle and threw it against the wall. Chuck watched as the bottle splattered and the perfume stained the wall, then dripped down until it dribble and seeped into the carpet.

Her vision was clouded with tears. The scent hung around them, filled the room, and she suspected it would stay in the suite for a long time after his maids cleaned it up. She hoped the smell would stay forever, so he would never forget.

She stumbled out of the room and pressed the elevator button.

There was a wait, not even long, but even a few seconds after she pressed, she screamed in frustration.

The empty elevator cab seemed like heaven when the doors finally opened. Blair entered the cab, then sank down to sit on the floor. She wished he would see, hoped he could watch what he had done. The stories were true. The Dark Prince was a monster. He was worse than what everyone else said. Worse, because he pretended to be her answer.

She barely heard the sound when the doors opened. But she saw the light, and she gathered herself up. She lifted her chin, then wiped the tears from her cheeks.

She stood and fixed her dress, her hair. She stepped out from the elevator as regally as she could.

She was glad that the hall was empty. If no one could see, then she could be a little less than perfect. She felt the first teardrop fall from the corner of her eye, sluice down her cheek and make its way to her jaw before dropping off and away from her skin.

She turned the corner and found Serena waiting for her.

And then her best friend wrapped her in a tight embrace. "B, honey, are you okay?"

Blair shook her head, but accepted the embrace. "I'm perfect," she sniffled.

Always, perfect. She was a perfect little thing like love denied.

tbc


	12. Chapter 12

**Part 12**

Fantasy, one would note, is a consolation. And among all the people in the world, no one deserved consolation more than Chuck Bass. No one would ever believe it, but the few who were aware knew that Chuck Bass was the unluckiest person in the whole wide world. If he were to utter it, everyone would scoff and think him impossible. But to the handful of men who knew it all, it was the truth.

The Dark Prince of Manhattan was an unfortunate young man indeed.

Once upon a time he was conceived in passion, unplanned, celebrated for two seconds. And then once known by more then his mother and his father, he had been deemed a devil. And a bad seed he truly was. He had proven it early on when it was known that bearing him would kill his mother. His mother's murder—there was no other word for it however long you racked your brain—poisoned his father's heart against the little boy.

Once upon a time Chuck Bass was born into privilege, in a gory bloodbath that sucked the life out of the wonderful creature that Bart Bass adored. Once upon a time, his father looked down at the infant who looked more like his dead queen than he could bear to see.

Early in life, Chuck found out what being the Dark Prince entailed. It came with all the riches in the world, and he had been poorer than anyone his age. He had a nurse who loved him once. Four months later, as the old guards would tell the story, the woman grew crooked and sinister and allowed herself to be bought. The woman had tried to drown him in the Palace pool, but slipped and cracked her skull on the tiled edge.

And Chuck Bass, at fourteen months, was found paddling in the pool by a terrified guest.

A tale came. A tale went. Some proven only by the number of tongues that wagged the same story.

At four years old, on the way to preschool, Chuck Bass held to his nanny's hand to cross the street between the Palace and the little brick red building. He spotted a monkey on a leash and tugged his nanny's hand so he could pet it. Despite the red signal, a bright yellow convertible roared and charged through the street.

His poor nanny pushed him out of the way, and caught the headline right on her ass, sending her flying into the air and right down on the ground. The woman's bones shattered into a trillion fragments inside her body, they said.

The third time was the charm, and the one that rammed the truth into Bart's gut. Chuck was merely six, the guards told him, when Bart thought to take another wife. The statuesque blonde was a model, and a charmer. Chuck took to her like he took to the little street monkey, the boy adored her so quickly. Bart left Chuck in the model's apartment playing a video game with the blonde, and returned to find the woman hanging from the ceiling with no stool in sight.

Be careful, they said, in hushed voices. Everything the Dark Prince touched, the Dark Prince killed. Directly, indirectly. They would not be long in this world.

In Bart Bass' frenzy his guards uncovered the nanny's involvement in a kidnapping plot. Days after the suicide a letter surfaced, of the model's overwhelming guilt for planning to hurt the little boy.

And it convinced the old man. "Somewhere out there," he told the highly trained men who guarded the Palace, "they're lying in wait." A force so strong, the guards whispered in a dark room full of monitors that were eyes to every part of the large hotel, a power so insidious. And it would not stop until it gets to the son.

And they would wreak vengeance. Vengeance, they said, against the son. Vengeance for a lost daughter.

~o~o~o~o~

Chuck felt the jar, almost like it was a kick. He opened his eyes a smidge and saw his old man in a formal, well pressed tux that cost half of a Palace guard's annual wage. And that was expensive, because Bart Bass paid prime salary to the men he hired to protect his hotel.

He scowled at his father, who narrowed his eyes and pointedly demanded, "Care to tell me why you're so pissed off now?"

Chuck turned his gaze away from Bart. He would rather not see his father preparing to partake in celebrating the lie. "You're going to be late," he reminded instead.

"I've got time," Bart answered. "Do you want to tell me what it is?"

"So you can fix it?" Chuck pressed.

"If I want to."

"Well you can't," Chuck returned. "You can't give me what I need."

"I've given you everything."

In Bart's eyes, everything was all that surrounded his son. Of course, the fact was that Chuck Bass survived the many attempts that his wife's very powerful family had launched. Bart Bass had done more than his share.

Chuck felt his father's eyes. They were sharp, observant, unrelenting. It almost burned him, to the extent that he wanted to run and hide. But still, nothing burned as powerfully painful as Blair Waldorf's lips.

He forced himself to meet his father's eyes, and was surprised to find recognition there.

"When did you manage to fall in love?" asked his father.

Chuck inhaled sharply. "Who said anything about love?"

And then his father sat down on a seat in front of his son. He eyed the empty glass that sat on the table. Chuck ignored the envelope that sat in that direction.

"I've been there," Bart mentioned knowingly.

And how Bart could compare his destructive first marriage—where he ended up impregnating and killing his rival family's only child—to the way he needed Blair… It was insulting.

"I'm leaving," he announced.

Bart sat forward, then shook his head. "That's insane. I've kept you alive for seventeen years. The Palace has protected you all your life."

"From what?" Chuck demanded.

Bart hesitated, and Chuck could see the small effort that Bart tried to hide. "You know how many people hate us, son."

"Then why aren't you locked up?" Chuck asked.

"Chuck—"

"You know, maybe this entire security threat is a load of crap." Chuck pushed up to his feet and stalked towards the door, ignored the spinning room that resulted from too much scotch, too much fear, too strong of a scent hanging over him. It was almost visible, like a smoky hand reaching out to him, a smoky, infiltrating, yellow, mango-scented finger reaching out to tap his shoulder. He quickened his stride and slammed out of the door before his father could call his name again.

He was in his silk pajamas and he did not even mind. So used to staying inside the walls of the Palace, he could walk in the rich and revealing cloth at any time. He entered the elevator, then heard the speakers inside the small cab.

"All units on standby. Prince in flight. Orange alert."

"Roger that, chief. Imperial one—negative."

Chuck huffed. His father moved quickly. He appreciated it when he needed something from Bart. But now, it seemed ridiculous.

"Imperial two, negative."

The voices came in, and finally, he put the codes together. The guards were checking every floor where he could exit.

"Still in transit, over."

And now some tattletale told on him. Chuck pressed his palm over the buttons of the elevator, lighting all that he could touch. The next stop, and Chuck slipped onto the floor where there was a minimum security detail, just because he had no business being there. He quickly slipped at the edge of the corridor, remembering how he and Nate had once slipped from the guards and ran to the service elevator.

He thought they had been playing. When they reached the lobby, and Nate ran out the protective line of lobby guards leaving Chuck standing on the dark marble floor, he figured out that Nate had only been trying to escape him.

The memory used to be painful and just a little demeaning, but now Chuck cherished the threads of the recollection as he made his way to the escape. He slipped into the service elevator and hit five, then raced out to the manual exit door and jogged down the steps.

Hell.

He had not had physical activity in a while. Even his visitors, the ones he had told Blair about, could not make him do his aerobic exercises. He had tried in an effort to burn away calories and Blair from his head, to no avail. She was good and stuck there, around his gut, weighing his heart, like weight chains around his ankles.

By the time he reached the black door that led to the alley, he was panting.

He had no money. He could not call any of the fleet of luxury vehicles. He had no Stallion, like Nate did. He had no use for a motor Stallion when he was stuck up in the Palace. He pushed open the door and found a row of bicycles resting against the wall. Servants, he huffed. Why couldn't they afford better rides?

He picked the brightest red Pony and rode, teetered, caught himself with a foot on the ground. By all accounts, from what he had read and seen on television, you only had to pedal. Apparently, children could do it.

He gripped the handles of the Pony and frantically pedaled. By his twenty first attempt, the wheels rolled underneath it. Ecstatic, his heart thumping in his ears, he yelled in triumph.

His life was in his hands, not his father's, not the guards'. He was in charge of his destiny now. This felt fantastic!

~o~o~o~o~

Out of the days in her life, she would consider this as the most memorable. When she was old and gray, she would likely look back at this day and see the exact same reflection in her mind's eye. The gown she wore was pristine white, with loose sleeves that teased her arms when she moved. Her hands were clean, her fingernails unvarnished. The plan had been to wear gloves. In all the plates that her mother did, the woman wore gloves and it perfectly matched the wedding gown.

But Blair had stood in front of the mirror in her white gown and found the gloves overwhelming.

The dress was fitted, even clung to her waist. It was not the princess cut ballgown she had always imaged. This was chic, slender, because her mother thought she looked better in slimming cuts. Eleanor was correct, because she looked astounding. Even while it hugged her hips and her thighs it flared at her knees and danced around her calves.

The big expression was the burst and fluff of the white patterned veil that would be held down by the Vanderbilt selected tiara.

She was going to remember this. She had never looked more beautiful. And she was sure to make it to the newspapers.

No one could do wedding of the year better than the combination of a Waldorf and the full force of the Vanderbilts.

During reception, someone was bound to announce a candidacy. Blair had to be ready to pose with the chosen Vanderbilt then—maybe Tripp.

She whirled around when she heard the glass window break. The scream climbed up her throat, and she even placed her hands on her stomach in preparation of a scream. The curtain parted, and she expected to see a hooded man, or someone who wore a stocking as disguise.

Instead, like a wet puppy, Chuck's sweaty face popped inside. Her eyes widened, and without a second thought she was right there pulling him gingerly inside, careful not to catch her gown on the broken glass.

"Chuck Bass!" she gasped.

"Don't look so surprised," he gasped, catching his breath. "You probably expected to see me."

"After what you said in the Palace yesterday?" she said in disbelief. Blair watched as he pulled himself up and brushed himself off. "What are you doing here?" she demanded when he had stumbled into the room. His silk pajamas stained with sweat, clinging to his body.

"You asked me to take you, Blair," he reminded her. "Well I'm here now. Run away with me!" He licked his lips. "I just have a Pony, but we'll work it out. Do you have a card? I can reimburse you."

"Chuck, what are you talking about?"

And then he straightened to his full height, raised his chin, holding himself up like he were royalty and not like a—sweaty, exhausted boy. "I'm here to save you," he declared.

She narrowed her eyes, stepped forward in her grand gown. They must look the sight, in her wedding formal and his bed attire. She inquired softly, "Save me from what, Chuck?"

"From making the biggest mistake of your life," he told her.

Her eyebrow arched. She was affronted. "So you think just because I don't agree with you, I'm making a mistake."

"You're marrying Archibald." His eyes flickered to her gown, then spotted the blinking and infamous Vanderbilt diamond. "I can afford a ring much better than that. You want a pink one? A square one? You want a bigger diamond surrounded by hundreds of little ones?"

In her experience, a ring meant love.

She held her breath, barely able to breathe. But she would not make the same mistake that had sent her crying all night until her eyes were so puffy the artist who did her makeup muttered the entire time she was preparing for the wedding.

"Don't marry Nate," he repeated.

"Why, Chuck?" she said breathlessly. In her head, she repeated the chanting, murmured urge.

"Because," he started, seemingly searching for words, "I care."

She pulled back. "And?" she prompted.

"Because I'll change."

"I want to believe you—" she said tentatively.

"Believe me."

"It's not that easy," she insisted. "You've hurt me too many times."

"Maybe you're just making it difficult," he answered, irritated. He had also been impatient the first time they met, she remembered. He hadn't let up until she hurt herself by landing with a twisted ankle on the carpeted floor. "Fine. I know what you want." His voice hardened. "You want me to say I love you."

She gasped, this time hurting more than she hurt the time he refused to acknowledge the feeling. Blair blinked quickly. "You're an asshole."

"And you don't love him the way you love me," he finished. "Admit it."

"I'm not going to deny it."

"So you admit it," he said quietly. She could almost hear his triumph. "You love me."

The door swung open. Blair turned and saw her maid of honor standing with a look of surprise. Serena opened her mouth, then closed it. She watched the two in silence. So Blair turned her attention back to Chuck. Serena knew, after all. Her wordless, brokenhearted anguish in the Palace the day before should have clued in her best friend. And if Serena did not conclude correctly then she did not deserve to know.

"That doesn't mean I don't love Nate," she replied. If Serena flinched, Blair did not care anymore. If the words hurt Chuck, all the better. Someone else in the room should feel a little bit of what she felt. "This isn't a lottery. I can't throw away everything in the off chance that—" Her voice dropped. "I'd rather be with someone who loves me, really loves me." She stepped closer to him, met his eyes, then urged. "Say it. Say it to me. If you do, I'm yours."

"There's someone else here," he bit out.

"I can go," Serena offered.

"No!" Blair cried. "Say it in front of her." And then he tore his gaze away from hers and stared at Serena. "Say it in front of me, in front of another person. Make it real." His jaw tightened. She nodded, then whispered, "I thought so."

She turned, walked past Serena and out the door. Behind her, Serena mumbled an excuse. Blair stopped at the opening, at the end of the aisle. Serena stopped behind her, then draped the veil over her head and placed the tiara firmly to hold it in place.

"Blair, at the Palace yesterday—"

"Yes," Blair interrupted.

"Then," her best friend continued, "I think it's my duty as your maid of honor to ask you, B. Are you sure you want to do this?"

And then, under the sanctuary of her veil, Blair released the tremulous breath accompanied by her tears. She nodded. "There are worse things in life," she answered, and somehow she knew having uttered them here and now, it would always me the caption that her marriage came with.

"You're right," Serena told her.

Like loving someone who would never have the capacity to love you back as well, as much, as often, as ardently.

Harold walked towards his daughter. Blair forced a smile under the veil, to hide her teary eyes. Needlessly it seemed. Underneath the veil, her father could see nothing. Instead, he said in greeting, like she were still his little girl, "And the princess fell in love, and it changed her life."

It was how he always ended his stories, at the close of the week, before she fell asleep. She loved to hear the end. As a child, it told her dreams were wonderful, and she should hold on to them so she could be just like the fairy tale princess.

She leaned, then allowed her father to place a kiss on her cheek. When he was close, she whispered, "How did it change her life?" Because loving changed her, but that was not how the stories ended.

"She married the love of her life," her father told her, almost like it were new when all happy stories ended this way. He turned her around, so they were facing the aisle, the grand altar at the end of it, and the handsome, kind, perfect Archibald who waited. "And you know what, Blair—" The music played, the traditional marching song for the bride.

"Yes, daddy?" she said.

"They lived happily ever after."

They started down the aisle. On her father's arm, she started crying, sobbing softly. Harold paused midway down the aisle. The orchestra stopped playing. He turned to Blair and smiled in encouragement. She sniffled, "I'm sorry, dad."

"It's alright," Harold answered. "Lots of brides cry on their wedding day." He tapped a finger on the tip of his nose, and she felt like she were six years old. "Don't let the picture at the end of the book fool you. I bet Cinderella was bawling when she and Prince Charming got married."

She was sure that when the wedding portraits arrived in the large leather bound album that the professional photographers would send a few weeks later, she and Nate would look perfect, and there would be no trace of this emotion embossed in the finish.

Blair nodded, then started the walk again. Again, the song surrounded them in rhythm with her steps. A few steps later, just like her dance, her feet stuttered and music sputtered like a dying engine. She could see Nate step forward once, in concern.

With the silence of the orchestra, her sniffles were audible. And when she sobbed, it was louder still.

"Blair?" She heard Nate's whisper even from so far away.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

She shook her head. If she denied it, then perhaps nothing would be wrong. Nate walked up the aisle and towards them. And it reminded her of all his promises, that he would take care of her, that he would save her. If she could not make it all the way through, then he would come to her.

He was almost perfect. If he were not in love with someone else, he would be flawless.

Nate stopped in front of her. He lifted her veil, and she saw the reflection of her tears in his bright blue eyes. "It's me. I make everything better, remember?" he said softly.

And just because of that, there was no way she could take another step. "Nate," she said sadly. "I—"

And then, like thunder, they heard the doors slam against the walls. The audience turned with a titter, and then the rumbling whispers began. Blair's eyes widened at the sight. He had stolen someone's coat. He had chosen a black one with velvet trimming where the folds should be. Trust the man to pick the most expensive from a closet. A senator, who was seated on the fourth row, commented that the coat seemed familiar.

In his silk red pajamas and black coat, he shone. Under the yellow light, it looked like flames surrounded him.

"Stop!" he cried.

"Good Lord," a woman exclaimed, "who is that boy?"

Nate's hand closed around Blair's elbow, in a gesture both protective and possessive. He addressed the guest, and called out, "What do you want, Chuck?"

And Chuck cocked his head. To Nate, he replied, "You know what I want."

And then Stallions roared to life outside, their noisy revving engines sure to disrupt the orchestra even if Blair's crying had not done it already. The guests peered out the window and saw Chariots rolling in. Palace guards formed a line and zipped across the lot towards the church.

"I've got something to say—" Chuck began.

"Chuck. Archibald said Chuck."

"Chuck Bass?"

It's the Dark Prince!" a young woman exclaimed.

"He's real," said another one in awe.

And then a child, only seven, in a bright yellow dress, said aloud in disappointment, "He doesn't have a tail. Or horns."

And Blair ignored them all, focused only on the man who stood at the other end of the aisle, the complete opposite of where she was supposed to be.

"I love you!" he said, his voice strong, proud. He stood in front of all the people that came to a Vanderbilt wedding, and pronounced the words clearly. And it was as if a thousand rainbows vividly streaked a path across her sky. "You want me to say it again?"

She nodded, grinning now, past her tears.

"I love you." He stepped forward, and Blair felt Nate's hand loosen around her elbow. "Look at me. I love you." And he continued walking towards her, through the path that was covered with red carpet and a billion rose petals, through the floral bouquets that were made in the color of the Vanderbilt's party, wading across the flashing lights of the photographers. "I'll say it again." She nodded. "I love you."

And then he stopped, in front of her. He turned and faced her father. And Harold hated him. She just knew he did, and with good reason too. She looked down at Chuck's outstretched hand.

"Stay away from my daughter," Harold muttered.

And Blair looked teary-eyed at her father. She would say it again, this time for another reason. "I'm sorry, daddy." She placed her hand in Chuck's. He closed his around her hand and then tugged her forward.

Palace guards now lined the doorway. Blair pulled the tiara and her veil off her head, then dropped the priceless accessory on the floor. She extended her bouquet towards Serena, who took it tearfully.

The guards parted, and Bart strode in late to the wedding where he was invited. "Chuck," he said to his son. "Let's not wait for any trouble. Go on home, son."

And then Blair placed her other hand around his.

She had never been more exhilarated in her life than the entire ride back to the Palace. Chuck held her hand and raised it to his lips, and she had been breathless. When he opened the door of his suite for her, her heart fluttered. She had been nervous when she stepped inside the room and was oddly comforted by the remaining smell of her perfume.

He nodded towards the stained wall. Blair looked at it, felt oddly out of place in her wedding gown when she was standing in the center of his suite.

But he had stepped behind her and taken her hand, then placed a kiss on the side of her neck. She closed her eyes and almost pretended her wedding gown and his room went hand in hand.

"You drive me insane," he said. She heard the faint trace of accusation in his voice and was delighted.

So she turned in his arms and rested her wrists at his nape. She pulled him down gently, and threaded her fingers through his hair. "I love you," she whispered.

And he answered with a kiss on her lips, "I love you."

He parted with her, and she let him go reluctantly. "I'm going to take a shower," he told her, "and get the sweat off of me. And then—"

And then they would spend every second together.

Fairy tales did come alive, she thought. Even when it was not your Knight at the end of the happily ever after.

"Hurry back."

"I ordered us champagne," he told her as he unbuttoned the top of his red silk pajamas. "Tonight, we celebrate."

Blair walked towards the wall and traced the stain on the paint. She would never have it cleaned, if she had the choice. She moved closer and sniffed, remembered the mangoes, almost felt the stifling heat the day he held the fruit to her lips and the juice dribbled down his chin.

The bell rang. Blair made her way to the door and pulled it open. The bellboy eyed her dress, a little worse for wear. She flushed, then stepped aside.

She allowed the bellboy to roll the cart. A cold bottle of champagne sat with two flutes. There was a covered tray. The bellboy nodded his head in goodbye, and then she was alone.

She heard the shower turn off and waited until he stepped out of the bathroom dewy and fresh. His robe was parted down his chest even as he tightened the terrycloth belt. He met her eyes across the room.

Blair followed him with her eyes as he rubbed his hair dry with a towel. She poured champagne into two flutes. When she lifted the cover of the tray, she saw a single chocolate covered with the familiar gold dust.

Her lips parted. Of course he would send for one.

She gingerly picked up the piece of chocolate, then held it up. And that was when she saw the Vanderbilt ring glinting on her hand. She pulled it off and placed it on the saucer where the chocolate had sat.

This was forever.

There was no hesitation. Not anymore.

"Chuck," she called his name. "Cheers." Chuck looked up with a grin. He met her eyes. His gaze flickered to the chocolate on her hand. He looked puzzled. She placed the chocolate on her tongue, then sipped champagne.

"Wait. Blair, wait." He dropped the towel on the floor and frantically made his way towards her.

The flavor burst in her mouth just as the dark chocolate melted and coated her throat.

It started as the same burning sensation she had taken pleasure in, and then burned like fire and acid. Blair grabbed her throat, then coughed. And then, when she breathed, there was nothing. She stumbled and grabbed onto the cart, but the wheels gave and slid, sending her tumbling in a mass of white couture cloth.

"Blair!" she heard his frantic cry. "No, no, no."

But she had fallen, and she had fallen into a cloud. It was soft and wonderful around her while inside she burned dry. Her eyes grew heavy, and his face swam before her as she felt him gather her up in his arms. The room grew darker, and it almost seemed like they would be imprisoned again.

But the windows were open and the door was unlocked. The darkness was only in her eyes.

If she could speak, she would ask him if he knew how this fairytale was supposed to end.

tbc


	13. Chapter 13

**Part 13**

"You know her," came the female voice, faint and blunt as it forced through the cloud of his consciousness. His eyes flickered to the intent eyes. Her face weaved in front of him, dancing as it were across the table and behind the smoky tendrils floating above his coffee cup. For the first time since he had known her, Serena van der Woodsen was ugly. "She would have done what she wanted either way."

She was an angel, Nate thought. Her face, her golden hair, her soft skin when his fingers trailed up her arm.

But right now, across the smoke, she warped into a monster.

Serena van der Woodsen was the most awful monster in the universe. He could tell because she was sitting before him now looking every bit as delectable as the day she tempted him. And it was unfair, so unfair. He was Adam and she was Eve and she looked at him like she wanted him to sin, wanted him to unravel so that he would never be good enough for what he always strove for.

He shook his head free of the evil angel, the golden haired seductress. Instead he told himself that every time he thought of his wedding day, he would remember Blair Waldorf standing at the beginning of that aisle.

"She looked like she stepped right out of my dreams," he murmured. He cupped the coffee with both hands around the stinging heat of the ceramic, eager to feel the slow burn.

He heard about it in the news. It had exploded like wildfire across the media mere hours after it occurred. There was an interview of the hotel doctor—the erstwhile doctor given how quickly Bart Bass canned the man after the news spilled—and he spoke about his suspicions about the poison burning its path to his fiancé's gut. Nate relished the painful heat just because it made sense.

His wedding tuxedo was crumpled by now. He had locked himself away in his honeymoon suite. His grandfather handled the press that wanted to crawl all over him by forcing the door open with a battering ram. Tripp was off placating the sponsors that flew from all over America. And Serena was there to comfort him.

He felt like any moment Blair would happen upon them and have that disappointed expression on her face. Silly fear, he knew.

"She looked like a princess," Serena agreed in her soft voice. And Nate knew from the tone of her voice that no matter what, she loved her friend. Even now he thought Serena would thank Chuck Bass for being the instrument that ruined the lives that they had planned.

But Nate remembered Dorota's lecture once upon a time, and without pause corrected her, "She was a queen."

This time, Serena's hesitation was obvious, noticeable. And then, as if she needed to say it to continue, she added, "It wasn't your fault, Nate."

The mug hit the wooden table. Serena jerked in her seat. Nate watched the brown liquid as it splashed on to the table. "She was poisoned," he stated. "Dying. Maybe even dead—we don't know. Not with the amount of news that gets leaked from the Palace."

"I'm sure we would know—" Her breath hitched. Even with a man between the two of them, Nate could tell that she could not bring herself to think of that possibility.

"It's my fault, my responsibility."

"How can something that happens to Blair in the Palace be possibly on your shoulders, Nate?" Serena finally demanded.

"You know how it works," he answered. Everyone did. Everyone knew that his role in her life from the day he caught her in his arms when she slipped off those steps.

"What? That you're the knight in shining armor that saves Blair?"

Nate picked up the biscotti that sat on the dish, assessed it by turning it in his hands, then tossed it back to the table. There was no point to the conversation. Only he and Blair could know truly what they were. Only Blair would understand.

"She went with Chuck Bass," she stated. He flinched. "She left you at the altar, Nate." He glared at her. "She's my best friend, and I love her. I'm terrified for her." Her hand closed around his. Nate snapped to the point where their skin made contact. Very slowly, he pulled his hand out of hers. Serena frowned, then fisted her hand. "But I know this shouldn't make you feel any guilt."

Nate's elbows rested on his knees. He moved forward. His voice dropped. "You should feel as guilty as I do."

"No, I shouldn't," Serena said decidedly. "This was her decision. Blair finally made a decision that made her happy."

"She wasn't happy with me," Nate admitted. It had long been nagging at him, that degree of shine that got lost between the day he proposed to the day he took her home from the Palace.

"Exactly."

"Do you know why?" he asked, even though deep in his gut he knew.

"Because she was in love with Chuck Bass," Serena stated. "Dark Prince or not, she was in love with him."

Nate slowly shook his head. "Because she could tell that I loved you," he guessed. "What kind of fairy tale is that?"

"Nate, I told you—"

"That's why she thinks she's in love with Chuck." There could be no other reason. At least, there was no other reason he could accept. "How can she love him? She barely knows him. She's loved me since she knew what the word meant. No. She could tell when she looked at us. She could tell, and it hurt her. This is our fault—yours and mine. That's why Chuck Bass happened." He shook his head again, as if he had searched for an answer and found nothing. "I can't ever be with you now," Nate decided. "Not after this. Not until I save her."

"I think by this time, the Basses have done everything."

"No," Nate insisted. "I'm still the savior, Serena. This is how it works."

~o~o~o~o~

"No," Chuck said quietly, tightening his grip on Blair's hand.

Her hand was slack and limp, cool in his hold like it had never been cool before that night. When she had fallen down in the massive gown she wore, stark white and pale like the cloth that encased her, he had run to her side and gathered in his arms. She could barely speak, and her eyes looked straight through him as if he was not there. And even then he could hear her voice when mere silence came out of her mouth.

In his head, she asked him for help. He was never going to hear the words. Not when she drifted away with every pained, shallow breath.

But he heard it anyway.

"I'm going to save you," he swore.

A security breach, the loyal guards informed him. While all the Palace guards raced to the church to make sure their one charge was safe, whoever had done it had made his move. They infiltrated the kitchen, and so all utensils and appliances that would serve Chuck Bass had to be replaced. The cameras had been tampered, and so one by one they were taken down and replaced. All employees in the Palace were subjected to a thorough search, and the captain of the guard—the shift supervisor—had their records pulled and backgrounds once more assessed.

"Chuck," Bart said firmly, "there is no way we can keep her."

"She made the decision to leave," Chuck insisted, his voice firm, more stubborn that he had been when faced with his father. "When she was awake, she decided to leave. She's not something we borrowed, dad. You don't get to decide when to give her back."

He could just imagine her—waking up and seeing that he was not there. And she might think he had abandoned her again.

That was not going to happen. Not if he could help it.

"We don't have the right to keep her here," Bart told his son. He placed a hand on Chuck's shoulder. "Harold Waldorf has demanded we return his daughter."

Chuck gave his father a look of disgust. "When have you ever done what anyone demanded from you?"

"Look at her," Bart commanded his son.

"I've seen her," Chuck bit out.

"You see her condition?"

She was pale, deathly pale, her lips dark with the poison that was pumping through her blood. He did not need to look. "I can see her even when I close my eyes." The same look, the same faded signs of life. It was exactly how she had been in his nightmare. The dreams had warned him, but he had been selfish and stubborn and wanted her more to himself. He wanted her so much he wagered his life. And now he was going to lose.

"I'm sending her back home," Bart informed his son.

Chuck shot up to his feet, blocking his father's view of Blair, stepping forward so that Big Bad Bart would be forced to take a step back. He did not fight for many things in his life. He never needed to. But this was one fight he was not going to lose. "No," he repeated.

"Chuck, I'm a father," Bart began, with patience in his voice.

"Then show me, dad. You said I love her. I do," Chuck said, the admission falling more freely after the first time. "Don't let them take her now."

"Son, it's because I'm a father that I need to give Harold what he's asking." Chuck avoided his father's gaze, because now Bart's misery was suddenly too real. "If you were out there somewhere, and you were sick or in pain, I would want anyone who found you to give you back to me."

"They'll hand her back to Nate Archibald the first chance they get," Chuck said bitterly. "She doesn't want to spend the rest of her life with Archibald, dad. You were there." In fact, that memory would keep his nights warm for years.

"And if she's not going to recover, she should spend that time with her parents," Bart said to his son.

"We can take care of her," Chuck tried again. Even then the guards converged around him the same way they did when he was in danger. Fitting, he thought. He felt as if he were about to die. "You can spend my money," he told his father. "No limits, dad. It doesn't matter how much it will cost. Will they be willing to do the same for her?"

"They'll do the same for her," Bart assured his son. "Mr Vanderbilt adores her."

"She chose me."

"And Nate still loves her."

"She chose me," Chuck stressed.

"You'll be otherwise occupied," Bart told him.

"Doing what?" Chuck inquired cautiously.

"Your grandfather owns the largest pharmaceutical R&D company in the nation," Bart informed him. "He couldn't save your mother. Maybe he can save Blair."

Chuck's jaw tightened at the concept. He had never met his grandfather, never exchanged pleasantries. Chuck only knew the man from photographs, and for most of his life his father suspected the man of every attempt on Chuck's life as payment for his daughter's loss.

"He's still my prime suspect for the plots on your life," Bart told his son.

"But he's the only hope," Chuck finished for Bart.

"Is it worth it, son?"

Chuck drew a deep breath. He nodded. "She's going to recover. And I'm going to take her back, dad."

"I know, son."

Bart nodded to the head of security. The man stepped away and Chuck heard him make transfer arrangements in the background. He denied the urge to rip the phone away from the guard. Chuck licked his lips. The guard flipped his phone shut, then informed Bart of the arrangement.

"Tonight then," Chuck repeated. The guard nodded. To his father, he requested, "Is it okay if—"

And his father knew his son enough to raise his hand in a gesture of silence. Chuck did not need to say more before Bart instructed the guards to leave the room. Within seconds, Chuck found himself alone in the room with Blair. Only the door separated them from the armed guards that were hired to protect Chuck. But for a brief moment he could pretend that they were alone.

He kept his movements quiet. Any noise and the guards would enter without asking for permission. The did their jobs well, and protected Chuck even at the cost of their lives. But no one told them the best way to hurt Chuck Bass was through this.

He was committed to this, he thought. Dangerous or not, he would make the trip to the man he never knew, to the man who abhorred him for the loss of his only child, to the man who was for all intents and purposes the puppet master of all the attempts on Chuck Bass' life.

One kiss.

One kiss to wake up Sleeping Beauty, he thought. One kiss that would turn the frog into a Prince.

"I'm coming back for you," he swore. Her eyes were closed. There was nary a flutter of her lashes. "I will charm the bastard," he told her, almost like she were awake and intently listening. "I will tell him stories, sing him songs, dance for him—whatever he wants."

She was still; she was silent. "They can take you away now but I'm coming back to save you," he promised. "I swear," he said into her ear.

He likely imagined it, but he thought he saw her draw close to the warmth of his lips.

When he touched his lips to her mouth, she was ice. He moved his lips over hers and urged her in his head to move, to kiss him back.

He raised his head, looked down at the closed eyes in expectation. Nothing.

"If I hear you responded to Archibald, we're going to have a long talk," he warned lightly.

And he straightened, brave and determined. He turned just as the door opened and a small woman bounded in a maid's uniform babbling incoherently until he recognized it was a foreign language. The maid made a beeline for Blair on her bed.

"My Miss Blair!" cried the woman. "My poor Miss Blair."

The Waldorfs have arrived, he thought. His back stiffened in automatic reaction borne of his last confrontation with Harold Waldorf. The lawyer assessed the still figure of his daughter on the bed, then turned to Chuck with a scathing glare. "This is all because of you," he said.

"I know," Chuck agreed. There was no sense denying when the essence was true.

"You are a selfish bastard, just like you always were," Harold said. "Even as a kid, you only thought of yourself."

When there was no one else to think of, when there was no one else to think of you, it was not impossible. "I'm going to save her," he told Harold.

"Basses and dreams of grandeur," Harold bit out. "We've got the Vanderbilts working on a cure. They've contacted every possible help they can."

And it was as if on cue that Nate entered the room. While Chuck looked haggard at discovering Blair's collapse before his hair was even dry, Nate in his day-old crumpled tuxedo still managed to look immaculate.

"What do you want?" Chuck demanded from the boy who was his friend many days, his enemy on most.

"You know what I want," Nate answered, mirroring their very argument at the church. "I've come to take my fiancé home." Chuck flinched. It was the easy and familiar way with which Nate placed an arm under her knees and the other under her shoulders, the effortless grace with which he carried her in his arms and towards the door. The maid hurried after them, fussing over her charge who still lay sleeping and unaware of her surroundings. "I knew one day whoever you are, you were bound to kill someone again," Nate muttered. "You knew it too, Chuck."

In fact, he did. The evidence was in his isolation, in his very dreams.

And even then he chose to call her to the Palace, forced her to stay—because it was what he wanted.

"Selfish bastard," Nate told him. "You'll get your due."

From outside the door, Chuck heard the weapons unlocking and training on Nate. "Is that a threat, sir?" barked the captain of the guards. Chuck's hand shot up to order his guards to stand down. The muzzle was trained on Nate's head, but he could see a faint waver like an accident that could send a bullet tearing into her brain. The guards lowered their weapons, then barked again, "Respond, sir!"

"Yes, it's a threat," Nate answered. "If she dies, I'm going to destroy you, Bass."

He had wanted to kiss her, to hold her, to spend a lifetime with her. But Nate and Harold had taken her away and he was left with nothing.

"Mr Bass, here's the Scroll."

Chuck accepted the long strip of paper that contained the code of the chemical raging in Blair's blood. "We've confirmed it. It's from the chocolate. The center was pumped full of it," they informed him. "This is what you need to show your grandfather. They will make the antidote from this."

"Send the Vanderbilts a copy," he instructed.

"Mr Bass, they're going to—"

"I don't care. Send them a copy. The faster we find a cure, the sooner this ends," he said.

tbc


	14. Chapter 14

**Part 14**

This is what fairy tales were made of, Nate thought as he stood at the doorway and studied Blair, sleeping in the large canopy bed with the curtains drawn partway. She looked better now, far more alive than she had seemed when he took her from the Palace. Back there, in the 'care' of Chuck Bass she had such pallor and grayness that she was more a corpse than a Vanderbilt bride asleep.

Now, with the attention of the Vanderbilt doctors and staff, Blair looked like a princess.

He glanced at Dan Humphrey, who stood beside him scribbling notes in a pad. A couple of feet away, Vanessa turned a handheld camera towards him. This is what fairy tales were made of, and they should be documented and immortalized, because fairy tales, her grandfather told him, must be told and retold so that his children would know the story in the future.

"She will wake up soon," he said allowed.

The camera's sensitive mic picked up his statement. Vanessa, on the biggest break of her career after being granted exclusive access to the breaking news, eagerly zoomed the lens so she could take a tight shot of Nate's face. High drama, of course. And his sadness was so real it almost broke her heart.

"Are you sure, Nate?" she asked, an omniscient interviewer. It was Dan's suggestion, to have the interviewer's voice cut in and out without showing her at all. At her question, Dan looked up from his note-taking. She was very certain the only reason she and Dan had been picked for this once in a lifetime opportunity was Dan's ties to the Dark Prince's portrait that started many an urban myth. Dan gave her a thumbs up.

"She has to," Nate added. "I'll do anything."

He was so handsome, and when he was sad, with his blue eyes liquid and down, he seemed like such a tragic character. Vanessa's heart skipped. All she wanted to do was wrap her arms around him. She was sure he liked her too. He saved her from the Palace guards on the day he came to rescue Blair. Either way, he did not look at Blair Waldorf the way a man in love did. He loved her, but she could not see his heart breaking with it.

Your heart has to break with love before you really were in love.

"Have they found a cure that could wake her up?"

"Everyone on staff is working on one. We got a break. We know the exact formula of the pathogen." There was a flicker in his eyes, almost like guilt, more of confusion. So Vanessa probed. Nate admitted, "The Dark Prince sent us the formula."

There was a pause. Vanessa searched for a response, but found none ready in her throat. She looked at Dan, who seemed as confused as Nate. But Dan Humphrey was the son of the woman that everyone suspected had been offed by the Basses for the infamous portrait of the devil's son. So the confusion quickly turned into disbelief, and then a scoff.

"It's a trap. It has to be," Dan said aloud.

Nate frowned at the writer, because he was supposed to stay quiet and document as per his grandfather's instructions. There was a reason he had opposed to this setup, but his grandfather had talked sense into him. And now he accepted that this was for posterity, so that years into the future his children would know how much he loved their mother. So that when Blair woke up, she could watch and read all that he had been through, acknowledged that she had made a wrong decision in leaving him.

After all, did he not say it more than once? No one loved Blair more than he did.

"A trap?"

"Of course," Dan reasoned. "It's the Dark Prince. Do you think he would do anything that didn't benefit him?" And then Dan shook his head, waved a hand in quiet dismissal of his own thoughts. He returned to his writing, then muttered, "If you ask me, I wouldn't trust that Scroll. If you base your antitoxin on that, you could very well kill her."

It was irrational, Nate thought. Whether or not Chuck Bass really loved her, or if he only wanted Blair for the shallowest of reasons, there was no possible reason that he would provide Nate with a Scroll of formula that could result in her death.

Unless, Nate thought, his eyes narrowing, the Scroll had come from someone else in the Palace—maybe to create a scandal that could make the Vanderbilts fall.

"What?" Vanessa questioned. "To get some sort of coverage on news that the Vanderbilts killed off their Nate Archibald's fiancé because she left him at the altar."

And good heavens, that stung!

But Bart Bass had invested so much in the Vanderbilt campaigns that it made no sense. Dan Humphrey, the writer from his school, seemed so convinced with his assumption though. And he sounded convicted. More certain of his opinion than Nate was.

"Do you really think so?" Nate asked Dan Humphrey. Then Dan nodded, and Nate was even more convinced.

He took the phone from his pocket, then slipped into the bedroom. Nate walked towards the canopy bed while Vanessa and Dan remained on the other side of the doorway. Coverage access or not, there were certain things that Nate kept exclusive and off limits. He sat on the edge of the bed and drew back the curtain.

She was still asleep, and he knew that Vanessa was taking the video. Sooner or later they would find a way to bring Blair back to him. And they could watch this entire heartbreak while they sat together in a couch she had picked out for their first townhouse. If she came back, he would give him everything. She had to see that he was the one who saved her, and they could return to the way they were—when she was his princess and he was the savior, a time when Chuck Bass did not exist outside the bubble of a monster's tale.

Nate dialed on the phone and held it to his ear. Blair's hands were folded over her belly on top of the blanket that covered the lower half of her body. Nate placed a hand on top of her clasped hands.

"This is because of that chocolate," he whispered. He had seen it, gleaming in its case in Chuck's suite. When he was younger, he had wondered why the other boy kept his hands off the chocolates. Chocolates were delicious and Chuck Bass kept them locked in a case.

He waited for his call to be answered. It took a few rings, and he supposed that the people on the other end were too busy to quickly respond.

"Hello."

"Dr Cotter," Nate said, putting the call on speaker for the benefit of Vanessa's camera.

And the man was effusive with his response. "Mr Archibald," the doctor replied in excitement, "we're almost there! We will have the medicine. We'll be finished in six hours!"

Nate's gaze moved from Blair's lips—moist and shiny, impossibly so when she had been asleep for long and proof positive that the Vanderbilt staff took such good care they managed to gloss her lips—to Dan Humphrey who was watching quietly from behind Vanessa. Dan shook his head in disapproval.

"Dr Cotter, I have to ask you to stop development," he said, his voice firm.

The doctor stuttered, almost deflated. "Sir. Are you sure? We almost have the exact formula to wake her up."

"Has it been tested?" Nate asked.

"We can't test it. Any animal we use to test the pathogen itself dies within minutes. It's a human strain of poison."

The Dark Prince, or any of his cohorts, made it impossible, he almost heard Dan say. Nate shook his head, then said, "Then stop development. I can't take the chance."

Nate turned off the phone, then leaned over a placed a kiss on Blair's brow, the way he often did when they were happy, before he proposed to her. He turned to Dan Humphrey, and asked. He would play back the video later, and because of where Dan stood behind Vanessa, it almost seemed like he had been looking straight into the camera for this one.

"Well, do you have any suggestions?"

~o~o~o~o~

The travel was arduous. Anonymity had been forced upon him by his father. He needed to be safe, Bart told him. And the only way to be safe when going to his grandfather's territory was to keep his identity from being revealed until the last possible moment.

So Chuck's journey had been awful, something he was unused to. In fact, most travels were given that Chuck had been isolated in his tower for so long. But Chuck would make the sacrifice for Blair. This was only one of many.

And so, Chuck sat down while the head of security talked him through the journey. His father stood by the window, several feet away, listening and providing his input when necessary.

"I'm sorry, Chuck, but you cannot take the Chariot."

No limousine. It was the only land vehicle that his father rode, that he knew was approved by the contingent of Bass lawyers. Chuck nodded, a little nervous. He had ridden a bicycle to Blair's wedding though, so he knew one did not need a Chariot to get things done. Of course, he had liters of adrenaline pumping through his veins at the time. But he could manage this.

"A Stallion then?" Chuck asked.

"No," the head of security told him. "Any Stallion that we have will be easily recognizable. Right now, New York is looking very closely at the Palace and at the Vanderbilts. Anything we purchase now will be publicized."

"Then how do you expect me to travel?" Chuck demanded.

The Palace guard fidgeted, then glanced at Bart Bass for support. Bart nodded. It was Bart who spoke next. "You will be given a few bills, some coins." And despite how wealthy they were, Chuck Bass had not held actual currency in his hands for some time. "We will walk you through a map, and we will make sure you understand what you need to do and where you have to go."

Chuck grew nervous. A map. No Chariot, no Stallion. "Dad—"

Bart cleared his throat. "You will be riding the subway, Chuck. You will be riding the bus. You will be crossing the street with guidance from the stoplights."

The Palace guard looked on with wide eyes. Chuck sucked in his breath.

He would venture out into the world stripped of all that he was, and brave the dangers of public commute. He lowered his head and considered his gleaming shoes. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, smelled the mango that still hung in the air of his suite. He would not forget the feel of Blair Waldorf in his arms, the heat of her lips.

This was only one of many obstacles he would brave for her. Nate Archibald always said he was her savior. Now it was Chuck's turn to prove it.

"Chuck, do you think you can do this?" Bart asked firmly.

He opened his eyes and raised his gaze to meet his father. "I can do this, dad," he answered.

"Then be ready for training," Bart informed him.

Chuck prepared like a solider prepared for battle. For the first time in years he rejected the suits in his closet. Chuck pulled on a sweater that was vividly patterned and brightly colored, then wore red pants. When Chuck entered the boardroom where a map of the subway system was projected on the screen, the head of security took one look at him and shook his head.

One of the Palace guards walked with him back to his room, and the man searched Chuck's closet until he emerged with a flesh sweater and dark blue pants.

"It's so—plain," Chuck muttered.

"You need not to stand out, Mr Bass."

"Call me Chuck. The head of security does." The man nodded with a small smile. "Why are you smiling?"

The Palace guard shook his head. "I was just remembering the day Ms Waldorf came to speak with you that first time. She'd been very offended by the waiting room." The waiting room, of course, that still existed for the women who insisted they would rather wait than be turned away. Chuck had not entertained anyone from the waiting room for a long time. "I never thought it would come to this point."

Chuck considered the words, then took the clothes that the guard selected. He changed into them and felt oddly diminished by the subdued colors.

Only one of many he would agree to, of course.

He returned to the boardroom and listened closely as the head of security talked to him about the subway system. Chuck watched the short videos they showed him, of product advertisements shot in the subway.

"This should give you some idea of what characters to expect there. Do not speak with them, Chuck. There are many people there who can fool you."

And then, the man showed him slides of photographs taken by his men of the streets above, of the insides of the buses.

Chuck noted the elements that he instinctively needed to avoid. "And you're sending me out there by myself?" And he would do it, without a doubt. But he hardly believed his father would allow such slack security.

"My men would guard you from afar. We cannot appear like a posse, Chuck. People would be curious. Some people already know how you look like thanks to your stint in the Vanderbilt wedding."

Chuck nodded. He did not regret that exposure and everyone in the room knew it now. That revelation abolished many of the misconceptions about the Dark Prince and most importantly, he had proven that Blair Waldorf chose him over Nate Archibald. He built a future around the moment that she placed her hand in his.

"How do I recognize them?"

"You don't," was the simple answer. "They may be dressed as businessmen or as homeless beggars. In many respects you will be making the journey by yourself, Chuck. They will only step in if your life is in danger. They're trained not to help you unless it's a red alert, because their stepping up for you means the mission is abolished, and your covers are blown."

Which meant he would not be able to save Blair anymore. Chuck tightened his jaw, then decided, "Then they're not part of this. Call them off. I don't want anyone ruining my chances at any point."

"There's danger outside the Palace, Chuck," the man reminded Chuck.

"I don't care. This will not depend on your men."

"Very well."

Chuck glanced at his father, and his heart warmed a little with the pride in Bart's face. Bart asked, "Are you ready for this journey, Chuck?"

Chuck drew a steadying breath. Soon, he would have the medicine in his hand. And he would find a way to make it to Blair. Soon, her eyes would open and she would know that he saved her. He could not wait for their happily ever after.

"I am, dad," Chuck answered.

Bart handed him a small GPS device with an LCD screen. The power light blinked at the side. "This is a Compass. You will need it in order to reach your grandfather. I've inputted the address there. It will lead you."

"Thank you, dad."

Bart reached inside his pocket and drew out his wallet. He handed Chuck a few bills, then said, "It's a long journey to the Upper West Side, son. You be careful."

Chuck nodded slowly. The Upper West Side. He had never been, nor had any of the people he had once invited to the parties he threw in the Palace. He doubted Nate had ever been there either. He hoped the journey did not kill him.

"Mr Bass," the head of security said quietly. Bart drew the guard to the side, then listened intently. The two nodded towards the cash in Chuck's hands.

Bart returned to Chuck, then informed his son, "Mr Lyons tells me that the two thousand dollars I just handed you in hundred dollar bills may not be helpful in your commute to the Upper West Side."

Two thousand dollars? Chuck checked the cash and then waited for his father to hand him more money.

Bart cleared his throat, then took ten of the bills from Chuck's hand. "We don't want anyone spying the money and attacking you."

The head of security counted bills from his own wallet. Chuck had never seen bills like that. The guard took two of Chuck's remaining hundred dollar bills and swapped it with several other bills. Chuck looked down. His eyebrows rose. "I didn't know they made two dollar bills, or twenty, or one."

The head of security frowned, and looked at Chuck nervously. "Chuck, are you sure you don't want my men guarding you?"

"I can do this," Chuck assured them. He turned around and dropped the money in his dull pants. "Hold on, Blair. Everything's going to be alright."

tbc


	15. Chapter 15

**AN: **Picking up the science fantasy fairy tale weirdness once more, and hopefully this should hold until the inevitable and nearing conclusion. Thanks for enjoying the oddness.

**Part 15**

True love was like a light, a beacon in the darkest night.

And so in the face of all the evil underneath the New York cement jungle, in the deepest bowels of hell, Chuck Bass rose. He was an avenger, an adventurer, a prince among men. Amidst the smoke and the noise emerged the Dark Prince of Manhattan. As if guided by the hope within his heart, Chuck—in his first adventure through the slippery snowy streets of the Upper West Side. Dressed in the commonplace clothing that his security chief had provided, Chuck Bass was anonymous. His mission, known only to him, fueled his stride.

The world outside, this majestic world, which he had longed to join from the lofty suites that was his entire life, was interesting enough. Yet as if he wore blinders Chuck Bass could not stop. The goal was the same, the map in his handheld device was his only reference. The North Star cursor blinked rapidly on the LCD screen of the Compass as he drew nearer and nearer.

He crossed a small park, green like he had never seen green before. Green with patches of white, and he thought that Blair would look wonderful there. If—when he successfully woke her up, he would take her there and they would drink champagne under the shelter of the trees. He walked through the park and emerged on the other side to find the looming building that was not as tall as the Palace. It was slightly older, its architecture straight from the days before the Palace was the best and the brightest. It was from long ago that Chuck began to fear—thought he would not admit it—the monster that lay within.

Chuck took a deep breath. His feet stopped in his tracks. He stood across the street from the large building until the dark wooden doors swung open and a figure at the doorway beckoned.

"Charles," the figure called, in wonder, in amazement, in delight.

The Dark Prince walked forward, the rapidly blinking North Star forgotten in his grasp. When he crossed the street, without looking either direction, it was as if the traffic parted to make way for the special young man—lost for nearly two decades from the legend that was the aged brick building of the Upper West. He stepped onto the sidewalk, and still could not see the face of the shadowed image.

He was out in the light, the Dark Prince, and inside the building was dark. He hesitated. He had just been in the darkness underground, and was reluctant to enter pitch black again. Pitch blackness had only been pleasurable in the mango-scented room where Blair Waldorf clung to him with sweet, longing kisses.

It was as if the figure noted his reluctance, because bright light switched on behind her, blinding him for an instant. As his pupils adjusted, and the glow mellowed, Chuck Bass found himself staring at a familiar stranger. She reached out a hand. Chuck's lips parted. He took one large gulp of breath, then frowned. "You."

"Charles," she said softly, nodding in welcome. When he did not grasp her hand, she stepped aside. "Welcome to the Empire."

True love.

She extended a hand, once more, when he stepped into the Empire. The high ceilings, the lush carpeted floors, the intimate cool comfort within, immediately drew him to the large hotel.

"It's like coming home, isn't it?" she asked.

True love. He thought he saw it in her eyes, this strange, lovely woman, who upon the touch of his hand closed her eyes, hiding away the magical light he had only rarely seen in his father's regard.

"I've come for my grandfather," Chuck declared. And yet for the life of him he could not turn away from the woman who opened the Empire doors for him. What did he venture into, when he stepped out of the Palace? What world was this that had a woman so magnetic he feared she would draw him away from his mission?

Think of her. Remember Blair. Remember the promises whispered before Nate took her away.

She chose me, he thought to himself.

"No, Charles," she said. "You don't know it yet. But you came for me."

And Chuck glared, a forced, put on glare, because he could find no enmity in his heart for the woman who stood before him. What a lovely stranger with beautiful eyes. "I came for my grandfather. I came for a cure."

The woman nodded to the two men who stood by the doorway, and the Empire doorway closed behind him. She drew him with her and they walked through the foyer, across the corridors and passed a club at their left. "A cure," she repeated. "You've come to the right place. My father has all the cures known to man." And with a secret smile, she shared, "Even the medicines no one else knows about."

They reached a tall glass doorway when Chuck processed the statement. He paused, then faced the woman beside him. "Your father," he choked.

She nodded. The woman grasped his upper arms and drew his stiff body down and kissed his cheek. "Welcome home, son." Chuck stared down stunned. "Tell me, how is dear old Bart?"

~o~o~o~

True love was like a light, a beacon in the darkest night.

Nate Archibald had made his choice, and despite Serena's broken heart, it was true love that brought her the Archibald mansion and made her sit beside the chosen Vanderbilt bride. It was true love for her best friend that made her swallow her pride and tear down her hurt so that she could hold Blair's hand. Her world was shattered, turned upside down, dark and dreary. But her best friend needed her, and so with her chin held high she ventured into Blair's bedroom and ignored Nate Archibald.

They were many reasons that Anne Archibald would never be on her side, many reasons why William Vanderbilt would not nominate her to take Blair Waldorf's place as the Vanderbilt bride. Serena never had the tragic look that Blair possessed. Society fed off that look, as evidenced by the photographs of Nate and Blair that littered the Society pages. She did not have Blair's measured movements, that fit so easily with the royal image that Anne desired. William Vanderbilt had called Blair a perfect little thing, and Serena was never going to be a perfect little thing.

In truth, it was the reason that she and Nate had exploded into that one, frenzied night they managed to keep secret from her best friend. If Nate admitted it, it was the very reason he was drawn to her.

No, Serena was not fit to be a perfect princess, to sit prettily to be admired.

Everyone thought Blair was a perfect little thing until she proved them wrong and surrendered to the Dark Prince. She was the perfect Vanderbilt bride until she turned her back on Nate on her wedding day. And even now they fooled themselves into believing that it was out of character, so completely unlike Blair, that they convinced themselves that when Blair Waldorf woke up she would fulfill the promise of the young woman they had built her up to be.

If Serena wanted Nate Archibald, she would be a little less the wild thing that Society scoffed at, and become a little more the perfect little thing that the Vanderbilts wanted.

"Wake up, B," she said to her sleeping friend. She was not afraid of Blair's return. No. She had seen Blair in her bachelorette party, seen Blair on her wedding day. "Wake up and teach me," Serena urged.

There was no one who can show her how except Blair.

But Serena once again proved that she was far from the perfect Vanderbilt bride. When she saw the young woman filming at the corner, having been there since she entered but not having made a peep, Serena flushed and rose. She dropped Blair's hand and faced the snoop. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

"I'm making a movie, documenting everything," Vanessa explained.

"Nate!" Serena screamed. When Vanessa changed the angle of the lens to capture Nate's arrival, like a White Knight to the rescue, Serena with her golden mane, a lioness trapped in a tale of a princess, grasped Vanessa's arm and propelled her towards Nate. "Get her out of here! That's sick."

Nate escorted Vanessa out of the room, but turned back to Serena and reasoned, "When she wakes up, she'd want to know—"

"Who said that?" Serena argued. "Was it you, or your family? Because from the looks of it, she hasn't said much of what she wanted since—"

"Don't," Nate pleaded for her to stop.

"Since she decided she wanted Chuck Bass instead of you."

"She was under the influence," Nate reasoned.

"No. She woke up," Serena told him. "Who decided she wasn't supposed to know about us? We did. I'm telling you, Nate, when Blair wakes up, she's not marrying you."

"You're trying to hurt me," Nate decided. "You're lashing out because my head is finally clear, and I'm doing the right thing."

"The right thing is Blair over me," Serena whispered.

Nate closed the door. "Now it's just you and me," he said.

And knowingly, Serena gave him a thin smile. "Is it, Nate?"

Belatedly, Nate Archibald, the White Knight who had known for years that he would wed Blair Waldorf—since she fell into his arms at Constance Billard—realized that Blair was asleep on the bed. He turned to Serena. And right then, Serena saw the crumbling interior underneath the polished, handsome, perfect façade of Blair's White Knight. There was anger, fuming inside of him. And then eventually, he calmed. In despair, he said to her, "You have always been my temptation."

"Wake up, Nate," she pleaded softly.

"Shouldn't you be telling Blair that?"

"She already did," Serena told him.

At the reminder, Nate shook his head. "Sometimes I hate you."

~o~o~o~

The glass doors opened almost immediately, and even then Chuck managed to spit out, "You're not my mother!"

"Charles, is that any way to speak with your mother?"

Chuck turned to the direction of the voice, and saw the older man sitting behind the yawning desk. From the photographs and videos that he had seen, he recognized the man as his grandfather. He turned again to the familiar stranger. His eyes narrowed. His heart was racing still.

"Charles, I understand that you must be confused."

"You're dead," he choked.

"Your father sent you to me because I have the best, most advanced R&D companies in the entire world."

"He said country," Chuck managed weakly.

"Your father is a stubborn ass. My company is the best in the world." He nodded at the woman. "Don't you think I wouldn't have started with home? Bart had given up my Evelyn for dead, so I allowed him that delusion. But I knew sooner or later I would have found a way to wake her up." His grandfather smirked. "There's your mother. And there's your proof that I was never behind any plot to kill you so I can avenge my daughter. Ridiculous nonsense."

Chuck regarded the woman, in whose eyes he saw true love. Evelyn opened her arms, then urged him, "Go on. I'm not going to disappear."

Chuck sucked in a deep breath, and smelled the new scent that surrounded him. It was home, truly coming home. This was more of a home than the lofty suite where he had no one, where he was above all of Manhattan as he lived in the sky. For the first time he felt the warmth of his mother's embrace. Chuck held tightly to her. "I love you," he heard her say. "Stay with me?" she urged.

And as difficult as it was, Chuck pulled back. His mother's scent was overwhelming, and the comfort of the Empire was enthralling. But he had a mission, one he could not forget for all the love he had found. "Blair," he choked.

"Are you in a hurry?" Evelyn asked softly. "Say no."

"Blair," he repeated. "Blair needs an antidote."

Evelyn sighed. She patted Chuck's cheek, then said, "You're tired, son. Why don't you rest upstairs? There's a suite waiting for you. I'll talk to your grandfather about an antidote."

The travel had been terrifying and arduous just like he had expected. Still, Chuck drew the Scroll from his pocket and handed it to Evelyn. "This is the pathogen. I need to wake her up."

Evelyn took the formula from him, then nodded. "Rest well, Charles. We'll work on the medicine for you."

True love was a beacon; it was sacrifice. True love was a light in the darkest night.

Chuck Bass slept in the Empire for one night, and then two, then three, waiting for the cure. Every night his mother came and held his hand, then spoke to him of the dreams she had until the day she died.

"And when I woke up, when I was alive again," she said to him, as Chuck drifted off to sleep, "I swore when I found you I'd never let you go."

It was true love, Chuck decided, because he knew when he claimed the medicines and woke up Blair, there was no way in heaven or earth that the Vanderbilts could ever take her away again. Never. He would never let her go.

In the night, despite his age, Chuck looked forward to watching his mother walk to the nightlight and switch it off.

~o~o~o~

True love was like a light, a beacon in the darkest night.

That was Blair Waldorf's first thought when she waded up in the dark ocean of sleep, swimming up towards the sunlight, the beacon, the lighthouse. It had been dark and dead for far too long. She broke through the black waters of that dream world and gasped for breath.

When she opened her eyes, she saw the light, bright, darling faces. He looked down at her with concern in his blue eyes. "Nate," his name fell from her tongue. And he was uncertain when he cupped her cheek. She reached for him and wrapped him in her embrace.

She met Serena's eyes over Nate's shoulder, and reached for her best friend's hand. "Blair," she said uncertainly. "How are you?"

Later she would learn that the medicines were sent by the most powerful drug company in the world, delivered in a beribboned package was a gift in the Vanderbilt's name.

"I feel—wonderful," she answered.

Blair pulled out of Nate's embrace, and kissed his lips. His loving kisses were the same as she remembered. Nate returned the kiss, then pulled away and glanced at Serena. He flushed. Blair giggled softly and placed a hand on his thigh. "You have to learn not to be embarrassed when Serena's around. She's my best friend," Blair reminded him. "She'll always be around."

"Blair," Serena managed, sounding uncertain. "Blair, are you sure you're okay?"

Blair considered the question, then nodded. "Of course I am." She glanced at her hand, and noted her bare fingers. "Nate, where's my ring?"

"Your ring," Nate repeated.

"My ring. Your mother's ring," Blair answered.

"Blair," Serena said in an urgent voice, "who's Chuck Bass?"

"Serena!" Nate protested.

"Chuck Bass."

"You know him, don't you?"

"Of course I know Chuck Bass!" Blair responded. Serena sighed in relief. "Chuck Bass is the Dark Prince. Ugly, horned monster from the Humphrey portrait, lives in the top suite of the Palace like a recluse. That Chuck Bass?" Blair frowned, then she gasped. "Does he have my ring?"

"Yes," Nate whispered. "Yes, he does."

"How?" she sputtered. She shook her head. "Never mind." Blair took his hand and held tightly to it. "Whatever you did, I'll forgive you."

Nate glanced at Serena, then turned back to Blair. He kissed her forehead. "I love you, Blair."

tbc


	16. Chapter 16

**Part 16**

In her dream world, there was no darkness, there was no light. Blair Waldorf held the secret close to her heart where no one else could venture. In the deepest recesses of her mind, there was a place that no one would ever discover. It was a place so secret, a place revealed only in the smallest hour of the night when she was caught adrift her faceless dreams. In that place there was warmth when all around her snowstorm raged.

It was a place she remembered when Nate Archibald took her in his arms and said he loved her.

There was a faceless shadow whose arms wrapped around her, and when he kissed her she closed her eyes. When that voice in his dreams whispered he loved her, and she opened her eyes, it was always like waking up from a long, empty dream.

Everyone kept a secret. Serena, with her longing look, had secret. Every day she tried to discover it, Serena would ask her if she loved Nate. Nate had a secret too. Blair felt it in his kiss. Her parents had a secret too, because on the way back home they drove around the city and avoided the street that was the shortest distance to her home.

"Don't go down that road," Harold told her. "It's a dangerous road."

Something told her the secret had every bit to do with the monster in the Palace. But after she had healed Blair knew there was nothing left to fear. In her father's fairy tales he cautioned her against venturing to the top where the monster lay in wait. But she was no longer a young girl, no longer a sheltered princess. She was a queen, unafraid to take a chance. From her closet she took a red-hooded jacket and put it on. She was queen, in blood red, the color of bravery. Because she was brave enough to change her mind on something so important but forgettable enough that she could not quite put her finger on it.

So it was that Blair Waldorf found her way to the Palace, and she stood by the doorway and looked up at cool comfort of the tallest hotel in all the land.

"Miss Waldorf," she heard the greeting.

In surprise, she looked up wide-eyed at the kindly eyes of the hotel security who led her inside. As she walked towards the elevator, she saw him take a Messenger from his pocket. She did not know what it was she looked for, only that she had taken a path that her father cautioned her against. He led her to the lift and inserted a key.

"Thank you," she murmured, still unaware of her destination.

The guard smiled, then said, "Welcome back, miss."

But the doors drew close before she could demand an explanation. And then the elevator sped up, and the rapid changing numbers on the LCD were so quick they blurred before her eyes. The experience seemed new, yet familiar. And halfway through the journey she knew enough to lean back against the cool wall and close her eyes. When the bell dinged and announced her arrival, Blair stepped off the elevator and found herself facing a closed door.

"Have I been here before?" she whispered to herself, certain that she had not yet feeling the eerie sense of déjà vu. She shrugged off the feeling. Certainly Nate would have known, would have told her, when he asked. She looked out the tiny window and noted she was at the topmost floor of the Palace.

Where the monster lived.

She was here to take back the ring. Whatever the Dark Prince had done to it, she had come to claim it. She waited for the fear and terror to overwhelm her person, but all she could manage was breathless anticipation. Blair reached for the doorbell. And then, by its own volition the door opened and she heard the voice that bid her to enter. Blair grasped the edged of her red hooded jacket and tugged them tighter around her body.

When she was inside the suite she stared wide-eyed at her surroundings.

"Dark Prince?" she called out nervously. The couch—Chanel, she recognized—looked comfortable enough to sleep in. The wide windows boasted a wonderful view of nothingness—bright, fluffy clouds perhaps. The sun blazing in cast shadows in the room, and turned the figure on the desk into a mere black silhouette. "Dark Prince," she repeated uncertainly.

He cleared his throat. "Remember this place, Miss Waldorf?"

Slowly, she shook her head.

There was a grunt from the desk. "I knew it. I knew there was a psychological component to his drug. And I knew he was going to make you forget."

But the statements were senseless utterances to her, and being inside the suite was uncomfortable. She noticed the toppled champagne bottle at the side, the shattered flute. The Dark Prince was truly a monster if he could not be bothered to call for help to clean the mess. The sight of the champagne stain was unsettling, and she wanted to run.

So she went directly to her point. "I've come for my ring."

"Your ring," the voice repeated. "The Vanderbilt ring."

Blair nodded. "If Nate lost it to you in a bet, tell me how much you want for it. I'd like it back."

"The ring is inside the drawer, against that far wall. Take it."

Blair bit her lower lip, then nervously clasped her hands. "How much do you want for it?" Because her father had lost his job and she had no cash on her. She could get the amount from Nate. After all, he was the one who lost the ring.

"Get it. Then we can make a deal."

It was a fearsome thought, a deal with the devil. But everyone would be disappointed at the loss of the ring. Blair turned her back on the desk and walked towards the far wall. She noticed the stain from a distance, and she wondered why it had not been washed. When she drew near and pulled open the drawer, she smelled the scent emanating from the wall. It was different, pleasant. She drew closer until her face was inches from the wall. She took a deep, long breath.

Mangoes.

She gasped, then held onto the drawer as feelings and sensations assailed her—excitement, heat, hope. There was a dark shadow that wrapped around her as numerous new memories surrounded her. She looked down at the Vanderbilt diamond glinting inside the drawer and took it in her hand. She turned around and saw herself, in a white wedding gown fit for a Vanderbilt bride, removing the ring and placing it on the tray.

"He knew everything he'd been told, knew it enough to take it away."

Blair's eyes widened as the silhouette rose from the chair and walked around the desk. When he stepped into the light, she noted the glint of silver in his hair.

"He knew that you were trapped here, so he took away the memory of the place." And as he related it, Blair drank the sight around her. "He removed his face, but he didn't know enough to take away that scent," he continued.

And she remembered clinging to a warm body, kissing a hot mouth, feeling the deep, burning need to vanish inside a stranger.

She did not know how she knew, but she sputtered, "You're not the Dark Prince."

His eyebrows rose. "I'm not," he said. "I'm Chuck's father."

"Big Bad Bart," she said. "You fired my dad."

"Are you ready for your deal?"

Her hand closed around the ring. "The Vanderbilt ring for whatever you want?" Big Bad Bart, who had easily fooled her into believing he was the Dark Prince, nodded on agreement. "Depends on what you need."

"What I've been afraid of has happened," he told her, "and I need your help. My son's grandfather has decided to keep him, and I need your help taking him back. I need you to rescue him."

It was preposterous. She almost scoffed and laughed out loud. Blair Waldorf to rescue Chuck Bass? The princess—no, the queen—the venture out and rescue the Dark Prince?

"Why me?"

"Because when he stayed there, he knew he was exchanging the Empire for the Palace."

"I'm a stranger," she argued.

She took a deep breath, and breathed in the fragrance of those mangoes that clung to the air. The same scent hung over that secret place in her dreams, the one that Nate could not enter. This faceless man, the one who gave her warmth while the rest of Manhattan was covered in snow, tasted like an explosion of mangoes and champagne and gold chocolate dust.

"His R&D is spectacular," Big Bad Bart Bass told her, "award-winning. But don't tell me it was enough to make you forget—everything."

If Chuck Bass was half what the dreams promised—

There were two worlds before her, she thought. One was a living in a perfect dream that she had wanted since she looked up into clear eyes as blue as the sky. The other was chasing a faceless shadow that felt and tasted like waking up. There were two worlds, and she had lived the first.

It tasted rather bland.

She broke into a nervous smile. Blair Waldorf was going to rescue a monster. What an odd adventure for Harold Waldorf's little girl.

"The ring isn't mine," she hedged. "I want something else for my time." Bart's eyes narrowed. "My father's clients. I want them all back."

Bart nodded in acknowledgment. "Consider it done," he told her. "Good luck."

~o~o~o~o~

They were a perfect couple, far more beautiful than she and Nate had ever been. She wondered why she had not happened upon it sooner or why she was not disappointed at the sight. All she could think of, at that moment, was that he was the perfect height for her and her complexion was so compatible with his. They went together so well as they kissed.

She wondered if she fit the same way with the Dark Prince too.

Serena was the first one to open her eyes and see Blair standing at the doorway. At once she pulled away from Nate and blinked at her best friend.

"It's not what you think," Serena managed, beautiful still in her flustered shame.

"It's exactly what I think," Blair answered. She toyed with the Vanderbilt ring between her thumb and her forefinger, then held it up to Nate.

Wordlessly, Nate took the ring from her and said, "Blair, we can still get married."

"You're in love with Serena," she reasoned.

"I love you," he protested.

"I know," Blair replied, because no one who knew Nate Archibald could ever truthfully claim that he did not love the girl he wanted to marry. But there was always a difference, and she knew that Nate would see it soon. "You should marry Serena," she advised, "if she lets you."

At that, her best friend flushed. He took her hand and said, "I need to marry you."

It was at this point when her White Knight grew a little tarnished in her eyes. Blair turned on her heel and towards the door.

"Blair," he called, "where are you going?"

She looked back at him, and pitied him after seeing the look on her best friend's face. Nate Archibald was in for a world of pain. After all, Serena had never been Blair Waldorf just like Blair had never been Serena van der Woodsen. And try as they might to become a little more like the other girl, there were certain critical differences in the way they fell in love.

Blair clung to love perceived, even when it was over, even when it was not real.

And Serena—well, Serena can and will walk away.

"I'm going to the Empire," she announced.

Nate's eyes grew large, as if she had proclaimed a stake to Antarctica. "To the Upper West Side? Why?"

Blair's eyes narrowed, because her White Knight was always so transparent and she recognized the guilt that washed over him. She walked towards him and cocked her head, looked into his eyes until it was he that turned away. "Who's in the Upper West Side, Nate?" she pressed.

And like any other time when it was he who was in trouble, Nate glanced instead at Serena. Blair waited. He admitted, "I didn't ask for their help. It was a gift. They had the formulation that would save you, and they sent it to me."

"Chuck's family," Blair finished.

"I would have saved you," Nate told her.

"You didn't need to."

"Is that why you're going to the Upper West Side, Blair?"

"I," she declared proudly, knowing he would be in trouble at her decision, "am going to rescue Chuck Bass."

"What?" Nate asked. "That's insane. You can't do that." He turned to the other girl and said, "Serena, tell her she can't."

Blair jutted her chin and waited. Serena shook her head. "I'm not telling her any such thing. In fact," Serena added, taking her back from the chair, "I'm going with her. Have fun telling your grandfather where your bride walked off to."

By the night, Blair Waldorf stood at the entrance of the Empire. Her heart thudded in her chest, part with trepidation and part with excitement. She had left her entire future in the Upper East Side, clutching the diamond ring that was once her promise that she would marry him. Here, she stood, in front of a dreary looking hotel with her heart on her sleeve. A heart, oddly enough, that skipped a beat—like her father promised it would—for a man whose face she could not remember.

"He might look a wolf—" she whispered.

"Or a troll," Serena offered beside her.

"Or a humongous hairy beast," Blair continued.

But bells still rang in her ears. When once true love meant looking into Nate's clear blue eyes, she was afraid her concept had been warped enough that she was completely in love with a faceless shadow who was hot to the touch and tasted like mangoes.

"Are you ready?" Serena asked.

Blair nodded, then stepped forward. She turned to the doors leading to the club. The Empire guard stopped her in her tracks. "It's a private party, miss. Do you have an invitation?"

Blair blinked up at the man, then shook her head. From over his shoulder she spied a dark-haired young man. Her heart danced a fast-paced jive and she gasped. Faceless, just like her dreams, with his costume hat placed low and covering most of his face.

"Is that Chuck Bass?" she asked.

Look here.

"Miss, you need to leave," the guard instructed.

Blair released a long breath, then stepped out of the hotel and met Serena's anxious gaze. She shook her head. "He doesn't look like he needs to be rescued," Blair pointed out.

"Is he with you?" Serena pressed.

"I'm here. Of course he's not."

"Then," Serena told her, "he needs to be rescued."

tbc


	17. Chapter 17

**Part 17**

Now bear in mind, few people knew Blair Waldorf as much as they believe they do. In fact, Blair Waldorf did not know Blair as well as she hoped. There were moments—few and far between, but it is more frequent these days—that Blair found something new and interesting about herself.

As a child she had been closest to her father, who thought she was the kindest, gentlest little girl in the world. To Harold Waldorf Blair was perfection, sweet and affectionate, and that he would be the envy of the other fathers in New York. Until one day when he concluded a session early enough to call his wife and volunteer to pick his little princess up from playschool, then found her bending down over a little girl who clutched a ragdoll in her hands.

And at first Harold thought his Blair was about to help the little girl to her feet. And then he heard the words flow out his princess' lovely red lips.

"Really, Tiff. Your doll is ugly. I have dozens at home much prettier and more expensive than your ugly Annabelle."

Harold, in his surprise, had tugged Blair away from the other girl. "That's not you, Blair," he said, in his gentle way of scolding, in a voice meant to press upon his innocent girl a life lesson he wished she would take to heart. "I want you to apologize."

Instead of walking back to the Tiffany and Annabelle, Blair had stalked towards the exit where their car waited. Dorota followed, but stopped beside Harold and told him, "Mr Harold, Miss Blair want to borrow the doll, and Miss Tiffany won't let her touch it."

On that day, Harold learned a new thing about the daughter he thought he knew inside and out. A jealous Blair was capable of many unexpected things.

After Harold, it was perhaps Dorota who knew her the best. Even more than Eleanor, Dorota had dedicated her life to watch Harold's princess grow. In fact, Dorota had been so tuned to the girl that she knew well enough to caution Nate Archibald once to call her a queen. Only Harold seemed to get away with the slightly lower ranked endearment. Dorota was confident in her knowledge of her charge until the day she thought that Blair was sick. Eleanor had brought home nice dresses—five of them—so Blair could choose one to use for her birthday party.

While Dorota prepared snacks and tea, Eleanor and Blair bonded over the styles that Eleanor chose. They were gorgeous dresses in cream and black and brown and royal blue and green. When Dorota arrived with the tray of food, the zip on Blair back was halfway up and would not budge.

"Let me help you, Miss Blair," Dorota said, and placed down the tray. Her charge looked sick and gray. "I bring you a nice apple pie."

"I can't eat, Dorota," Blair muttered.

And Eleanor pronounced, "This is hopeless. You've grown a size. Obviously. Box them up, Dorota. Blair, you have your credit card. Buy a dress that will fit."

"Are you coming?"

"No. I need to see if I can ship these back to Paris."

On that day Dorota learned something about Blair she wished she did not. When Eleanor left and while Dorota folded each of the discarded dresses, Blair retreated to the bathroom. She was sick, because Dorota heard her throw up. Dorota picked up a glass of water and opened the bathroom door, then found her almost fifteen year old charge with a finger down her throat.

Three adults in the penthouse, and none of them apparently knew Blair as well as they thought.

No one in the world knew her. Not Serena—who was surprised to find out that Blair's prince was darker than the perfection of Nate Archibald. In this trip to the Upper West Side, Serena had turned to her and asked if she was sure. And Blair told her that she had never been more certain in her life.

"But you and Chuck—you have nothing in your past."

To Serena, love was childhood and awakening. That was when she fell in love with Nate. Love was the thrill and the pain, because that was how it felt to have cheated on your best friend.

"Why do I need the past," Blair asked, "when we have the future?"

Serena had turned to the window and watched the buildings fly by. When Blair watched her friend's face, and noted the passing smiles at certain times, she knew the exact moments when Serena thought of Blair's ex-fiance.

Nate. Serena probably thought of Nate.

The world likely thought, with the hundreds of photographs that circulated of her and Nate Archibald, that if there ever was a man who knew her it would be Nate. But Nate did not know her. He could not wrap his head around the fact that Blair would not change her mind about cancelling the wedding. He could not even marry the idea that Blair Waldorf would ever take it upon herself to save anyone.

No.

Blair did not even expect that she would be brave enough to walk across that hotel room floor, with her eyes fixed on that one prize.

"Miss, you don't have an invitation," stuttered the guard.

Look here, she thought inside her head. Look over here.

And as she neared him, the scented memories assailed her, and she imagined a few hundred thousand little yellow butterflies fluttering around her, forming a hurricane that was fragrant like sweet mango nectar.

Look at me.

The first thing she noticed, focused as she was on his face, was the frown upon his forehead. His eyebrows furrowed, like he heard something he did not quite understand. He looked up, and his nostrils flared. She doubted he smelled anything, but the scent-memory could have hit him even when her presence was still unknown. The dark head turned in a silent search. Her breath caught in her throat when his eyes landed on hers.

He was beautiful.

A hand landed on her back. Her lips parted. She waited for the space of a breath, then two. He appeared to be struggling with air as much as she was.

"Miss, follow me."

Chuck Bass turned to the woman beside him. The woman looked like him, much more than his father did. For a moment she was happy at least he found family.

She blinked. The world seemed to move so very slowly. She turned to the man, who nodded at her and began to walk her to the exit.

And Blair never knew exactly what she was capable of until that very moment.

"He needs to be rescued," Serena had told her.

And she was not a little princess waiting for a prince, not a little girl stuck inside her little room looking out the window and watching that light that never died.

"No," Blair decided, and said it out loud.

She stalked back towards the Empire doors, and glared at the Empire guard. Blair gasped when the ballroom doors opened and she saw the Dark Prince. She stopped in her tracks, and so did he.

"Blair," he said, and his voice sounded like heartbreak.

She bit her lip. The image, that face, morphed so finely into the faceless images in her memories, fitted so well. And suddenly, her memories seemed so complete. "Chuck," she said in response.

She had imagined when they found each other they would run to each other, clasp each other close and never let go.

"Sir, she doesn't have—"

He held up a hand. "Leave her alone. You won't like what I'll do if you touch her."

She blinked. "I don't need you to take care of me," she began. When he opened his mouth to argue, she amended, "I just need you."

He closed his eyes. He took a deep breath.

"I was going to give up," she said. Why did he not move closer to her? Why did he insist on keeping that distance? "They told me I couldn't see you, and I was about to leave."

Everything had come easy for her, they said. She had been the perfect princess, and even the patriarch of a lineage as fine as the Vanderbilts thought she was the best fit they could have for the still open role of the Vanderbilt-Archibald bride. She was the best truly. No one could be better. Everything had fallen into place for her.

But the world did not know her.

"But I'm not Nate's girl," she said, telling him the very same thing he had told her. "It would be easy to go back, but I don't want easy."

Chuck closed his eyes.

"Chuck, come home with me please."

Home.

But for Chuck Bass, home had become darkness, a motherless prison where he was set apart from the world. In the Upper West Side, there in the Empire, he was celebrated as a lost son. Back in the Palace he would be a prince without a face, a monster without a name. He slowly opened his eyes, then walked towards her. Blair smiled.

True love. Her eyes were beacons in his darkness.

When he reached her he cupped her face. She smiled, because she had almost lost him forever from her mind. How could she have ever forgotten that face?

"I love you," she whispered, because out of all the things she ever said, it was that he always needed to hear.

She was the light in the dark, and he had almost lost her forever. She had been close to dead, because she had been close to him.

"I'm toxic," he told her. Her brows furrowed. "I said I loved you, and I almost killed you."

"Chuck—"

"I can't be with you," he told her. And then, his mouth slanted over hers in a hungry, desperate kiss. She parted his lips underneath his and eagerly accepted the tongue that delved into her mouth, warm and wet and pliant as it slid against hers. She felt the tears seep out of her eyelids when she recognized that kiss. Chuck Bass would be the only man to kiss goodbye in a way that professed a love that even he could not deny. She gasped when they parted, and she clutched at his arms as she panted to get enough air. His wet lips landed against her ear, "I won't be selfish. I'm going to say goodbye because you need to be apart from me. It's the only way I can save you."

She pushed very gently away so she could look him in the eye.

And then, because she was a queen who did not beg, she wiped the tears from her face. She would dream of his kiss, but she was not going to beg him to change his mind. And then, to answer his words, she told him succinctly, "Bullshit."

"I love you," he said in his defense. "That's why I'm doing this."

"You're scared."

"Of course I am," he did, not denying it. "I came here because I love you. Do you know how terrifying it was to get here?"

It had been a short ride away, but then again most thing were preposterous when it came to Chuck Bass. She had returned an insanely large diamond and turned down a life that would have been perfect for her, all for him.

"But I'm here, Chuck. And you're going to let me go, just like that?"

"Better married to another man than killed because of people who hate me," Chuck told her. Since the day she tumbled onto the floor in that white confection of a wedding dress, he had told himself perhaps it would have been better if he had not interrupted. Then she would not have partaken of that poison. "Then the only person dying would be me."

"Not acceptable," she said, arrogantly, certainly. She grasped his chin and forced him to look down at her. "You will go home, and you will speak with your father. You will find out who's trying to hurt us. I don't care how long it takes, Chuck. You will find a way that we'd be together without that constant threat."

She could see the disbelief in his eyes. He truly did not know what she was capable of. He had no idea that she would put up a fight. "If I don't?"

She swallowed. "Then I'll marry Nate," she said, lying through her teeth.

"I thought so," he mumbled.

"I'd marry Nate, and I'd make sure the reception is right here." Her eyes narrowed. "Then I'll get a bridal suit here in this hotel. And then I'd get pregnant," she told him, her voice becoming shaper, her demeanor meaner. "And you know what?"

"What?" he answered softly.

"I'll get pregnant." He winced. "And I'm going to send you pictures of my baby, maybe ask you to be godfather. And then I'll make sure you give my baby every wish he has. My baby will have nice blue eyes like Nate, and he'll be an Archibald. And he's going to call you uncle."

"Stop it," Chuck said.

"Why?" she demanded. "It's true. And we'll make sure you're invited to all his birthday parties, and I'll have a daughter and I'll name her after you."

"Blair—"

"And then someday I'll fall in love with Nate, because he's going to try so hard to make me love him."

"You're never going to love him," he said finally.

"How do you know?" she pushed.

"Because you love me."

And at that, her lips curved. She nodded and moved closer. "Then come home, Chuck. Come home and find out who hurt us. And don't let me go."

He swallowed. He turned back and saw his mother watching them. Chuck closed his hand around Blair's, then walked over to Evelyn.

"Mother, this is Blair. The drugs worked. "

Evelyn nodded at Blair. "What beautiful lips you have," Chuck's mother commented.

Blair flushed. "Thank you."

Chuck leaned and whispered into her ear, "All the better to kiss me with."

"Your eyes. They're Chuck's eyes. The resemblance is uncanny." Blair added, "You have wonderful eyes."

"All the better to watch you with," Evelyn pointed out.

The words brought a chill down her spine. Blair hand tightened around Chuck's. Chuck felt the movement, and brought their linked hands to his lips. "I'm going home," he told his mother.

"Because of Blair."

"Who else?" he answered.

Yet as much as Blair Waldorf did not know about herself, she realized she knew far less about the stranger who was Chuck's mother.

tbc


	18. Chapter 18

Updates are sparse, and shorter than usual… But I'm trying…

Having a hard time keeping in this story after the finale. Ya know me, always wanting to pick up where the show left off and fill it in with a multichap…

**Part 18**

She was pure.

Nate Archibald certainly prized them pure and innocent. The Vanderbilts would not have approved if she had not been spotless white and pure like the political name she would have gained. Blair Waldorf was pure and white like the driven snow upon which she graced Central Park with her presence. The park, and the pond, missed her. The landscape starved for her. Everyone was on the watch for Blair Waldorf.

Messenger phones tweeted and chirped, and tittered and twirped, and mewled and croaked. Every single one had the same message, one that set Manhattan on its toes. The latest, juiciest, meatiest scandal to ever erupt in the social scene was aboard the Chariot, making its way from the Upper West to the East.

"East is East and West is West," came a snide text from the city's foremost columnist, "and never the twain shall meet."

And yet it did, they said. "But there is neither East nor West, when you fall for the very best." In that swanky Empire ballroom, amidst a crowd of peers, two pairs of dark eyes searched and found each other. It was the runaway Vanderbilt bride, they said, fresh and innocent, and that monster prince who turned out not to be such a monster after all.

But they were so very different. She had been flawless, sinless in Manhattan while he—he had been the stuff of nightmares.

"It's a child," the older writers said, their pens brimming with disappointment.

"A young man," said the commentators on television, with the glint of the eye that spoke so much of the possibility of a million chances to cover the Dark Prince. Attractive young men involved with society brides rang so much of scandal that the prospect was salacious.

"A handsome demon," insisted the papers that piled in street corners. "A handsome youth, but a demon nonetheless." And on the snapshot that was taken on the day of the failed wedding between the Archibald heir and the Waldorf girl, was drawn horns sticking out of the rumpled hair. Juxtaposed with the picture, which seemed human enough for the tears and the passion in the Bass' eyes, was the infamous portrait of the Dark Prince, depicted in infamy as the monster of Manhattan.

Blair Cornelia Waldorf, after a mysterious illness and a miraculous recovery, was on her way back with the Dark Prince in tow. Like driven snow, and that streak of blood that blossomed and marred it forever.

Poor Nathaniel Archibald, they all said. Poor Nathaniel, a victim of the Dark Prince as much as the dead painter was. Poor Nathaniel, with his innocent, loving, gentle heart trampled by a monster and the girl he loved. Poor Nathaniel—all he ever did was love Blair. The very second news of the Dark Prince's exodus from the UWS reached the Upper East, the Vanderbilts' publicist were hard at work, churning releases about the martyr heir and his undying love.

"All he ever did was take care of her," said one.

"All he wanted was to save her," claimed the other.

Yet none of them ever recalled that tiny rumor once upon a time of Nathaniel Archibald and Serena van der Woodsen losing themselves in one another at the expense of the young woman in the Waldorf penthouse. No, the releases were filled with the kind heart of Nathaniel and the certainty they had that no matter what transpired, the Vanderbilts would welcome Blair home with their wipe open arms.

Inside the Chariot, the Dark Prince read through each and every one of the pages that featured him. He looked up at her in concern, then asked, "Can you face them?"

And she touched a hand to his cheek, then asked, "I will. Will you?"

"I am everything they say."

A monster, a demon. At least he knew very well that he had caused more people to die than the people he truly knew.

"If you were as awful as they say, you would have never fallen in love."

At those words, his eyes brightened. "And I am," he acknowledged. The corner of his lips curved up. "With you."

She nodded. "And I would never have loved you," she told him. When he lowered his gaze, he felt the soft butterfly kiss on his forehead, then drowned in the fragrance that was only theirs. Sweet and heady, sugar and heaven. He longed to taste her on his tongue. "But I do. So I know you're so much more."

She washed over him, her very presence, her words, her belief. Chuck's eyes fluttered closed and he breathed deeply and smiled. This was all that he had once been denied. He felt her body soft and supple against his when she melted against him and pressed kisses on his mouth.

"I love you," she breathed.

"You do," he returned, not in disbelief now, but in affirmation.

When her lips drifted to his ears, and kissed the stubble on his jaw, he heard her say, "Tell me."

"Never loved anyone until you," he answered.

"Say it."

His eyes opened, and he looked down at the soft eyes. "I love you," he voiced. "There's never going to be anyone else."

And she was still that little princess, that queen—that selfish, silly girl underneath the age that losing him had brought. So she asked-even though it was unfair, even if no one had the right to demand it. She asked him because she was truly a spoiled little lonely girl with his light for companion in the darkest, dreamiest nights, "Not even if I'm gone."

His nostrils flared at the mere thought, and he pressed his nose against the corner of her eye.

"Even if I'm gone," she repeated, "and you're all alone—you'll never replace me."

"Never," he breathed, in that fervent, pressure of a whisper.

At that, she bit her lower lip and laid back against the leather seat. She clutched at his lapels and pulled him towards her, over her. He pressed a kiss on her shoulder and down her throat.

For the first time in his life, he was possessed with a need to share one intimate moment. Most times he had been with a woman—and he had been inside the most beautiful and the richest, who traveled across oceans to be in the Palace during one of his bashes—he had been possessed by a desire to sheath himself in tight bodies that flexed over him and writhed underneath him. This time, he wanted to feel her heart thumping against his chest, feel how his skin felt rubbing against hers.

"Chuck," she gasped. "Chuck, I want you."

"Are you sure?"

A small smile, and once again she was all over him in that kiss and that embrace. Blair in his arms, as they rode in the soft comfort and definite safety of the Chariot, he thought it was all his dreams come true. Once upon a dream, a dream his heart made, outside the sleep that never came, she was his.

"If we do this, there's no turning back," he cautioned her. He strained inside his pants, and any other girl he would have freed himself and attended to the pressure, asked her to help. But this was Blair. She was worth a little pain.

"I don't want to turn back," she swore.

"Have you seen my life?"

And she nodded, placed a kiss on the corner of his lips. "Let me be part of your world."

And if it were even possible, his mind whirled and his heart fell even harder for her. "You don't know when we'll be free from the threat. Maybe," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "we never find out who's trying to hurt us. Maybe we'll never be safe."

She nodded. "Then we won't be safe together."

He released a breath he did not know he held. Chuck pulled her close and pressed a kiss on top of her head. Her fingers fluttered to his chest, then played with a button closing his shirt. With a deft twist of her wrist she unbuttoned the shirt and touched her fingertips to his chest.

"If I'm never going to be safe, I'd rather be in danger with you, Chuck."

It was insane, to have fallen in love so quickly, so intensely. One of these days he would surprise no one by asking Nathaniel's former fiancé to be his wife. And it would not take weeks or months.

Maybe he would ask her in a few days, or tomorrow, or tonight.

Their mouths latched on to the other's, and his hot tongue slid inside and rested against hers. She moaned deep in her throat at the insane explosion deep in her belly. She had never felt the slick wetness that pooled between her thighs. He was hot, as hot as could be, hot as she remembered him. His skin burned her and she allowed herself to be consumed.

The tip of her finger scorched in his heat. Her brows furrowed as she felt his weight rest over her. Beneath him she parted her legs and leg the hard zip of his pants dig into her belly.

"Inside me," she coaxed, that very moment when he sprang free and onto the palm of her hand.

"You're sure," he said, his voice light.

She took a deep breath, and with a nod, she closed her eyes and arched her back. "I'm yours."

And then, like he had never been buried before in his life, he buried himself inside of her. Her gasp. A cry. That crystal teardrop.

"Chuck," she choked out.

And she was his, like she promised, the same way he was hers. There was no innocence to claim, but he felt his heart clench in his chest the very second her muscles tightened around him and he heard her say his name. No other name would ever fall again from her lips—not in the throes of passion. He drew his hips back, and pushed in. "Blair."

She grasped his shoulders as he moved inside her, tightened her legs around his hips as he jerked inside of her over and over. Sweat bloomed on his forehead and dropped on her chest. She drew him towards her and closed her lips over his in the exact moment he poured himself inside her.

Afterwards, she looked up at him with beaming, teary eyes. He raised himself up from her. "I love you," she said laughingly.

His eyes flickered to the stain on her thighs that she quickly tried to cover. He caught her wrists. His come mixed with her blood stained her pale skin, and he realized.

She was impure now, far from innocent. He had made his mark. She was not the Blair Waldorf they all knew.

And somehow, the feelings that surged through him overpowered his senses, and he closed a hand around her nape and pulled her to him, kissing her in a kiss that had no semblance of control. His teeth scraped her lips, and he swore he cut the skin just as her nails tore his back.

"Nothing else matters, Blair. No one else matters anymore," he swore.

Because he could swear, the rest of the world could implode and it would change nothing in his life.

She bit her lip, and with that twinkle in her eye, she touched the leather of the seat. "I think I'll remember this Chariot forever."

"It's yours."

They stopped in front of the Palace. He was the first to alight, because the crowd was thick. He was proudest when he saw, amidst the scandal and the thousand blinding flashes, the light of his life descend from the Chariot and faced those that surrounded her. Her father came up to her and held her by her elbow. Chuck lowered his head, because he was feared and abhorred, and his face must always be hidden.

And because if after all they shared, she turned her back on him—

When he reached the Palace doors, and saw the guards wave him in, he hesitated. He turned around and saw her, and Harold Waldorf stayed her. All the better, so that no one would place them together in their minds. It was enough to imagine, yet so different when the proof was immortalized on digital print.

But she went up to him and took his lapels in her hands, pulled him down for a kiss that was long enough that it would have been possible to sculpt their image in marble. "Together," she murmured against his lips. And the word sounded so pleasingly erotic he locked his fingers in her hair and kissed her lips.

He looked up at Harold, then wrapped an arm around her waist. His. Forever. "Mr Waldorf," he greeted.

"Leave her alone," the older man pleaded.

Yet it was Blair who intertwined their fingers, then said to her father, "Dad, don't fight it."

It was a new thing Harold learned of his daughter, a lesson he did not like. Harold's eyes lowered in disappointment. Blair's hand tightened around his. He leaned a whispered into her ear, "Someday he'll understand it."

"Bells, daddy," Blair said, in a message that only Harold could understand. It seemed so long ago now, but the way that her father had described love was the definition she came back to every time she needed it. "Bells are ringing in my ears." It had been so silent with Nate. "And every second I'm afraid I'll die because he takes my breath away." She paused. Blair glanced at him, then returned her gaze to her father. "Remember, daddy? Remember what you said."

"This isn't the same, Blair," Harold said. "I was—I am—I would give the world for your mother."

"Then you don't have to worry, dad."

It would forever be Harold Waldorf's heartbreak, that image of his daughter turning away and reaching for another man's hand. Somehow the sight of her holding on to Chuck Bass elicited tightness in his throat that could not compare with the emotions that surged in him when he walked his daughter down the aisle on what would have been her wedding day.

"I still love you, daddy," she said in goodbye.

But maybe, he thought, she loved someone else more.

Harold sank as the Dark Prince walked through the doors of the Palace, and with that monster did his daughter vanish into the shadows.

She was stained; impure; ruined forever by the devil's own.

tbc


	19. Chapter 19

**Part 19**

In front of all of Manhattan the Nathaniel Archibald used to take Blair Waldorf in his arms and whirl and pose and dance with her all her wanted, and all of Manhattan saw that she was desirable and he enviable. There were times when Nathaniel kissed her on her cheek, and on the back of her hand, and presented her like she was his to be presented. All of these times Manhattan looked on with admiration and a tiny bit of jealousy, for all the world would never have the life they had.

They would never be as handsome. Goodness, no one could compete with Nathaniel Archibald's form. He was princely without being a prince, courtly without needing a court. Truly remarkable to be such knowing how comely his father was. Why, all his traits came from his Vanderbilt mother—his poise and grace.

Blair Waldorf, in every single picture, was perfection unmarred by scandal.

Until, of course, the day of her wedding—which did not turn out to be her wedding at all. That outrageous monster from the Palace came and swept her away, and my did Manhattan titter and whisper about everything after that. From the day she was whisked away all misfortune befell her.

A broken engagement—and hush those objections that it was she who broke it off. The Vanderbilts may hear and poor victimized Nathaniel Archibald would be shamed.

A coma—never let it be said that it was a crime against Blair Waldorf and the dark prince because it was sure to be the Basses' fault. Whoever could breach a security as tight as the Palace anyway?

An abandonment—who cares that Chuck Bass left only when the girl was out cold and that he was possibly in search of a cure. After all, the girl woke up and he was nowhere near.

And now the scandal of all scandals erupted, a scandal that was sure to break Nate Archibald's heart. No wonder Nate tended to his wounds in the company of the only girl who could understand. Pity Serena van der Woodsen was attempting to heal him. It would have made Manhattan just a tad happier to fantasize that one regular Upper East Sider (as poor as someone who only had one measly million in her time deposit) can take Blair Waldorf's place in his life.

The scandal started with money, as do most scandals. The Chariot driver's photographs and statement was splattered across the front page of the New York Scroll, and come morning and publishing deadline millions of screens flashed with the banner story. On the way back from the Upper West Side and the Empire, it said, the Dark Prince plucked the cherry, ravished eat, ate it until the red stains dribbled down his jaw. Or something less titillating. In fact, it was certainly less titillating on the morning edition, but grew more outrageous and more indecent with every passing second and each forwarded message, with every repost, rechirp, retweet.

For the mileage the story received, the Chariot driver grew richer and richer, and farther from the UES where his life would have been forfeit.

The devil prince had planted a seed, they said, and the perfect Vanderbilt bride grew big and heavy with a Basstard child. It was ridiculous, yet so fantastical that the word spread and the Upper East Side consumed the gossip like it was a tiny piece of French pastry and there was a contest.

Within one week. She was supposed to show. One week after the gossip. One week after her deflowering. One week and what a monster seed it was.

And even then the biggest heartache of it all was that Harold never called. Even Eleanor had bothered to leave a message to check on her daughter when the ridiculous pregnancy shocker came out. Blair insisted it was something she expected when she walked towards the Palace and away from her father. But still there were those moments when he walked into the room where they had spent that night trapped, and she looked out his wide windows and down to that point he often looked when they were children.

And he would stare at that one light, always there in the night, just steady, not flickering, visible in the distance.

He walked up behind her then and wrapped his arms around her from behind, rested his chin on her shoulder. Their fingers locked together. His lips pressed to her ear. "It will always be there," he assured her.

"One of these days that light will be gone." Because they both knew that despite Harold's renouncement it was his light down there, her lighthouse, waiting and calling for her to come home. "One of these days he'll tire of waiting and he won't be there anymore."

"He won't," Chuck told her. "He loves you, just like I do. I would never give up on you."

But Blair would not leave the Palace to go home, because home meant that there would be no Chuck. No, she had told him. Harold should come, and when Harold came he needed to accept Chuck Bass. And Harold knew his daughter's request. And to that request he responded by lighting the lamp to call his daughter home.

When the light called her the most, deep in the night, she stood before the windows and watched it, how unchanging it was, how steady and lovely and familiar. Behind her he stayed and held her because every night she chose him.

One week after their return to the Upper East Side, Blair Waldorf stood at the doors leading out of the Palace with a young man beside her. It was a young stranger it seemed, one they had never seen before. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a much more pleasant version of Chuck Bass.

"Are you sure?" Chuck asked her, because one week later and the story only grew bigger, like her flat belly was supposed to do.

She placed a gloved hand around his and nodded, and they ventured out by themselves, without the Palace guards flanking them.

They gave them freedom, and stayed a whole six steps behind them.

Those who saw them walk down the sidewalk threw up their phones and took photographs, and when Chuck noticed his hand grew tighter around hers. Most of their audience stayed away, and he noticed Blair eye the people who stared and whispered. He drew close and offered, "We can turn around and go home."

"Or we can continue walking and prove that it doesn't bother us."

"When it does?" he asked, challenging her. "You decide."

"If you want to go home," she told him, "then we'll go home." Home was a lovely little word. She wished that one of these days she could share her home, because he should know what a real home looked like.

"I'm used to the talk. It never bothered me."

But it bothered him enough that he never came out to play. His father could only do so much.

"Then we'll continue walking," she pointed out. She made the choice when she took his hand and ran from her wedding. He was, to her, before Manhattan. And she loved him more than she loved Nathaniel. When her father asked her to stay, she chose to enter the Palace.

She took him outside, to see the world, and no one would have ever thought that the world would be so ugly. To the Dark Prince they all called a monster, the world outside very slowly became unbearable. There were stares, rude and unseemly, and there were hoots and hollers when they saw her beside him. They were not stupid, merely isolated. But even in their isolation they saw how such a beautiful moment between them was shared to the world by one who could not have witness it truly. And how the moment morphed into something ugly.

But they were together, just the two of them if they did not count the guards. They were together in their own private world and he just willed away the busybodies who thought to enter their world by their gossip and talk.

One girl, dressed the way Blair often dressed in school, came up to them with a phone in her hand and approached. And she was used to encounters such as those, because she often took the compliments of young girls who dreamed about growing up to be her. This girl was a mere two of three years younger, but when she spoke she had nothing of the lilt of the girls who idolized her.

"You traded a catch like Nate Archibald," the girl began, and turned to Chuck and looked him head to toe. The girl shrugged, "For a monster."

And Blair sucked her breath and prepared to return the insult, hesitated one breath. Then was surprised when it was Chuck—so unused to the world outside—who took a step forward and inserted himself between Blair and the girl. And then softly, almost like it was an attempt at seduction, he said, "Do you ever wonder what I do all alone in the Palace?" The girl's eyes widened and she shook her head. "Do you read those fairy tales they write about me?"

"They're urban myths!" the girl declared. "Not true."

And Blair, for some reason, thought she saw the reflection of a grim smile in the girl's eyes as she stared back at Chuck. And Chuck pushed, "Are you sure about that?"

At this, the girl turned and scurried away.

"You're terrible," she said, chuckling.

He shrugged. "Those stories have worked against us a lot of times. This time, I just let them work in our favour." He noticed when she grew pensive and stepped before her. She was doubtful still of the lives that they would lead, but that time in the Chariot sealed it for him. He could have turned around and left after she left Archibald for him, because all it proved to him was she loved him, but after the incident with the chocolate he would trade his happiness for her safety. But when he had her, and she had him, right in the back of that Chariot, they were inextricably linked forever. Whatever stupid mistake happened that got her hurt then was never going to happen again. He was going to take care of her. Even if he had to protect her from silly little girls who knew half of what he discovered about love.

And then he heard that voice, the call of her name, and he felt chills over his body because he was not prepared to face off with someone she knew.

Her eyes flickered and turned to someone behind him. They widened, and he tingled. And then they crinkled at the corners, and a lump started in his throat. Her eyes shone.

Just like that, he knew the world that only had the two of them would shatter. Sooner or later, the world needed to come in. He just wished it had been later.

"Serena!" Blair cheerfully called. For the joy in her voice, the interruption would have been worth it. Until, of course, Chuck turned around and saw the statuesque blonde make her way towards them in stilettos, and leave behind a uncomfortable looking Nathaniel Archibald. Nate slid his hands in his pants pockets and stayed still, watching them.

Chuck felt himself metaphorically set aside when Serena and Blair flew into each other's arms and collapsed in a tight, rather active embrace.

He cleared his throat and found himself inserting his hands in his pockets as well. The planet of Chuck and Blair exploded like Krypton and he was tossed out like Clark Kent's rocket, spiralling away, propelled by its own force. When he slid back into experiences he had as an only child growing up in his penthouse it reminded him of his lonely existence.

Chuck glanced at Nate Archibald, who seemed similarly indisposed. Nate sighed. He took his hands out of his pockets, which showed he was open for approach. Then Nate folded his arms across his chest, which told him he still had reservations. Chuck reluctantly made his way over to him.

Nate told Chuck as a child that he was only forced to hang out in the Palace for Bart's business.

Chuck saw Nate's fiancé, and wanted her, and eventually blackmailed her into coming to him. And then Chuck stole her away on her wedding day and took her virginity at the back of his Chariot.

Oh, and Chuck made her fall in love with him as much as he fell in love with her.

On a scale, Chuck supposed, between the two of them, he was just a little bit more at fault.

Because it was Chuck who approached, Nate Archibald felt it wise to nod towards the girls, who were sparkling and crackling with stories they shared. "That's going to be a while," he told Chuck.

Chuck cleared his throat. "Is it?"

"They've got a lot to talk about."

Chuck frowned. "Do they really?"

Nate's eyebrows arched. "Did Blair do anything recently that she would want to tell her best friend all about?"

And the Dark Prince cracked a smirk. "They'd be a while." And then the expression turned sober. He said to his oldest friend—who was his best friend even if he were not Nate's—, "Sorry about, you know, that."

"Stealing my fiancé," Nate stated. "You can say it."

"I know you really wanted to marry her."

"But you wanted her, and you always get what you want." Nate's expression grew darker. "You don't deserve her."

And Chuck watched as she whispered into Serena's ear, and Serena clapped and hugged her friend. Blair's eyes shone, and there was a flush in her cheeks that he never saw in any of the pictures that peppered and sometimes coated the Lifestyle sections of the newspapers that were published when she was Nate's, and she was about to marry into the Vanderbilt clan, when she thought her life was the life of an Archibald wife. Back then she was the toast of the Upper East Side and Manhattan envied her sad, beautiful eyes. Now she was not adored, not nearly as popular, and many thought her choice devastatingly wrong. But there she was, laughing and blushing, her eyes sparkling, her skin glowing. And no one would dare take her photograph and put it side by side with those sad, Vanderbilt ones.

Just that sight gave Chuck impetus to look back at Nate and say, "She deserves to have what she wants, and by the looks of it, what she wants is to be with me."

And to his surprise, when Nate looked back at Blair and Serena, he replied, "You're right. They both look a lot happier." And Chuck turned to his half-friend Nate and saw a small smile on his lips. "That girl is not the perfect Vanderbilt bride." Knew this time he was talking about the statuesque girl right in front of Blair. "Definitely not grandfather's first choice."

William Vanderbilt was clearly hung up on the perfect image of Blair, of the reputation she had then, of the image the Vanderbilt publicists had crafted just for her.

"Not the best Vanderbilt bride," Nate considered. After all, the best Vanderbilt bride in William Vanderbilt's mind was already with the Dark Prince, and with that faded away the image of Blair Waldorf beside his grandson the politician. "But probably better as Nate Archibald's wife."

And this was when Nate told Chuck Bass, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For taking Blair and forcing my hand," Nate said, to Chuck's utter shock. "I would never have been brave enough to turn my back on my grandfather's choice if the two of you didn't do it for me." And it made sense to Chuck. After all, Blair was Manhattan's choice. For a budding politician, it was a powerful draw.

And Nate was—

Nate—

Between Chuck and Nate, Nate Archibald was Harold's choice.

Chuck grinned. "You can repay me."

Nate blinked. "I was grateful, but not grateful enough to offer something in return. You still stole her, man."

Chuck shrugged. "Then don't repay me. Do Blair a favour."

Nate looked up at Blair, then murmured in consideration, "I did cheat on her with Serena when we were still together." He nodded. "What do you need?"

"We're going to grant her wish," Chuck devised.

tbc

Catch up, catch up! Final part next.

Finally, a new burst of Chair. I only needed to get rid of Eva. lol


	20. Chapter 20

**Part 20**

The night was at its darkest, and all around the Waldorf home there was silence like you could not compare with any other silence. Hard to compare, that silence, because it was hardly ever the same silence behind every other door in that building. Silence, Harold Waldorf heard, even though white noise from the television screen drowned out every other noise in his ear.

It was silence, of course, because the only sound he wanted to listen to in the dead of the night was the voice of his little princess begging for a fairy tale.

Harold Waldorf huffed, because he had read Blair hundreds and thousands but even then it did not seem that she learned enough to pick a side. The cable was cut, and all he could see on the screen was the white spots that accompanied the dead signal. Harold pulled himself up, puffing at the exhaustion that settled in his body as he trudged towards the telephone to call the cable operator.

Huffed and puffed when he found the phone line dead.

Now Harold was a cheery man—had to have been to raise a daughter so perfect and well-mannered, so pristine that the Vanderbilts moved heaven and earth to set their heir with her. Harold Waldorf was a cheery man yet he growled at finding himself disconnected to the rest of the world.

"Eleanor," he called out.

But there was dead silence, this time real silence with the television off. There was not a stir in the house until he heard a shuffling noise from up the stairs. He glanced up and listened well.

"Eleanor," he called once more, but there was no response.

He climbed the stairs and walked to the master's bedroom, peered inside to find his wife gone. Harold walked in and spied the small note left on the pillow.

"Summoned to the Palace," was written in her hasty scribble. Harold let out a quick sigh of relief in knowing she, at least, was safe. Likely working with Blair on the grandest dress ever seen, to let their daughter live out the fantasy that his daughter always dreamed of as a child.

Pity Blair was marrying the Dark Prince rather than her knight.

Again, that soft, muffled noise. From where he was he could tell immediately that it came from several yards away, from Blair's room. Harold walked towards a portrait taken of himself, of Eleanor and of Blair and pushed it aside to reveal a safe. He entered his code that fancifully made the first few notes of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. As Harold took out the gun he had not used for as long as he had a daughter, his hand trembled.

Because he knew his daughter and there was no way she would be home.

Not after he disavowed the one man she was convicted was the love of her life.

Harold made his way to his daughter's room and flipped on the light switch. But the darkness persisted and the light failed to flood. Instead there was that small night light that cast eerie shadows in the room. It was the only light he had, that light he promised his daughter would always be lit to guide her home.

A large shadow cast over him as a figure stood from Blair's bed. Harold unsteadily raised the gun.

"There is no need for war, Mr Waldorf," he heard a deep voice say.

"Dark Prince," Harold mumbled.

"I truly wish you would call me by my name. Your daughter has no problem with it. You were such a brilliant employee, Mr Waldorf. I would think you have the capacity to understand."

Harold frightfully turned to his side where another figure loomed. He choked out relief when the night light threw enough glow to show the glimmer of golden hair and reveal the features of Nathaniel Archibald's face. "Thank goodness!"

And instead of the expectations he had of Nate saving him, Harold found himself gently and firmly disarmed. "Take a seat, Mr Waldorf," Nate requested. And in awe—and truly very practically given that he was an old man versus two strong young men—he did.

At Chuck's motion, Nate nodded and stepped out of the room. "The funny thing about security," Chuck said to Harold, "is that it works only up to the last point where your trust is misplaced. Unfortunately for you, you banked on Nate Archibald being your son that you failed to acknowledge that he would form friends along the way."

"Friends who would lead him to betray me."

Chuck shrugged. "Friends who would love your daughter so much they would leverage everything that they can, do all that they can, even break into your home."

"What do you want?" Harold demanded from the Chuck shadow. His fear—he would admit there was fear—rose to his throat. There were many things the Basses were capable of, and now he was the clutches of the hidden one.

And everyone knew the hidden Bass was a monster.

Yet Harold faced him bravely. If this monster had his daughter, he would try his very best not to be defeated. Perhaps there was a chance he would still have Blair back.

"You already have my daughter. I can think of nothing else I value that you would want from me. With Blair you have everything I love."

To the question the Dark Prince seemed genuinely confused, "Whatever more would anyone want if he had Blair?"

"Then what are you doing here?" Maybe—just maybe, but he truly hoped not—Chuck Bass was there to off him, Harold thought. After all, most of those fairy tales truly moved with the death of the princesses' fathers.

"All I want is to make Blair happy. And I cannot do that by myself. For that she needs to hear your blessing."

"I can take her back," Harold offered once more.

"You will not take her," Chuck gritted out.

Harold thought long and hard. Bells, Blair said. Even he could not refute her love for this young man. If she heard bells, if she felt her heartbeat skip, if she saw her world turn upside down—if she braved the Upper West Side to bring this young man home…

"I cannot give my blessing, because you are incapable of love," Harold said finally.

Chuck took a breath. Harold held his. If the Dark Prince morphed into a grotesque monster and chopped off his head to gnaw off his ears, he would not be surprised.

Chuck leaned forward, and swallowed. His voice soft, Chuck pulled himself together with the memory of the sweet mango nectar on his tongue. "Then let me tell you a story—it's the story of a little boy who was abandoned and scorned, then imprisoned in a golden cage for the beginning of his life."

"Some things you cannot explain away through a fairy tale. Life is not a fairy tale." Harold found that out first hand as his own daughter spiraled away from hers and found love in the arms of the devil.

Chuck grimaced. "Who ever said my story was a fairy tale?" he asked.

"What is it?"

"A horror story that changed into fantasy the day I saw your daughter through the Mirror."

Harold stared at the Dark Prince, watched the light from the night light throw some shades onto what had previously just been shadows. And he listened—he listened very well. "Once upon a time," Chuck began, "in a Palace high up in the sky." And Harold listened well, watched as the shadows moved and played upon the angles of the Dark Prince's face. And Chuck spoke about his mother. "Who died but did not truly die, who lived far away—wealthy and healthy but never had a moment to cradle her son." Chuck spoke about his childhood. "A long succession of days chasing imagined friends in empty corridors all the while watched for his father's fear of another attempt on his life."

And all through the night the story continued, and Chuck's voice faltered, grew hoarse, but on he went. The darkness competed with the sun and slowly the sun's rays burned away at the fringes of the night.

More and more the shadows caved and skittered away, and as the morning came the monster was revealed to be a young man.

"And then, in that dreary world, I opened the door and she walked in," he said. "That was the day my life began." Chuck looked up to Harold, and Harold realized that the Dark Prince—Chuck Bass, he corrected himself—had quite the warm brown eyes. "I will not die again. I will not lose her."

"She doesn't want to leave you. She never will," Harold found himself assuring the young man who bared his soul through the night.

"The way I see it, there are only two choices here. The first is that you give your blessing, and you come to our wedding and walk her down the aisle. You would witness her dreams coming true, not in the way he expected, or wanted, but there are happy endings that are surprises. That was how it was for me. The other option is that you do not give your blessing, and you swear us off for the rest of your life. Your daughter will be heartbroken, but I will spend the rest of my life loving her and someday, your absence will not hurt as much. And that day would come, Mr Waldorf. If you insist on that path I will do everything in my power so that she will no longer need you, and she would be happy without you."

"A daughter and her father—that is a bond your riches will never break."

"Better her heart break now than slowly fracture the rest of her life. We will have children," Chuck said.

Harold imagined little people with Blair's and Chuck's faces.

"If you do not come around now, then they would not even know your name."

And at first it sounded like a threat.

"But I would rather they know you, and they love you," Chuck continued, "because I know how it was to be brought up not knowing the existence of family. And I would spare my children that if I can." Chuck stood, then asked. "What do you say, Mr Waldorf?"

There was more gray than black to his hair, more lines and wrinkles than he cared for. Many things changed over time. Harold Waldorf sat on the grand chair sitting at the center of the room and opened the leatherbound book sitting on the bedside table.

Two pairs of brilliant brown eyes twinkled at him. Noses and mouths were hidden behind the light blue and pastel pink fleece blankets.

"Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs," he said out loud.

The pink blanket was thrown off one little body and the girl scampered to her knees on the bed. She peered towards the book he held, then folded her arms across her chest. She huffed, then pouted. "I want my bedtime story!" she insisted.

"Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs is nice. Remember the song you were laughing about? Heigh ho, heigh ho! That's from this story."

If possible, the pout grew poutier and teary eyes turned to the boy under the blue blanket. Now he'd done it, Harold realized. A deep sigh—like the one much much older people were wont to have—came from the little boy. The boy pushed off his blanket and hopped off his bed, then climbed up his sister's. "Don't make her cry, grampa," he said. "Just read us the story."

Harold stifled a grin, then said, "Cinderella."

The little boy's sharp eyebrows drew together. Although Eleanor talked to him about it time and again, Harold still enjoyed riling the two. The little girl's reaction when she did not get what she wanted threw him back to the days when he was younger and Blair still believed she was really the most beautiful princess in the world.

Really, not a lot had changed. Only it was Blair's husband's job now to assure her of her beauty and royalty. Harold quite enjoyed reliving the days through the little girl's pout. And he had to imagine, after twenty eight after dinner drinks with Bartholomew Bass, when Harold was no longer too scared of the man that Bart confessed to him he really did not know how a small Chuck behaved when he did not get what he wanted, that he would be a bit like his son.

The little boy shook his head, then looked up at Harold in disappointment. "You know that's not Cinderella, grampa."

"Fine, I'll read it," Harold said.

"See, Saby? Grampa was just messing with us. Stop it, grampa."

The little girl sniffled and nodded.

"All right," Harold said. "I'm not going up against the Basses."

The little boy climbed back up to his own bed. Harold nodded towards the door as Blair and Chuck walked in to tuck the children back in. Chuck sat with the girl and Blair kissed the boy's forehead.

"The Dark Prince and the Fairy Princess," Harold read, "by Daniel Humphrey."

The little girl gave a tiny little squeal.

"It's her favorite," her brother unnecessarily explained, omitting the fact that it was quite his favorite story too.

"Is that right?" Harold asked. The boy emphatically nodded.

"Once upon a time, there were two towers that stood in the city far away in distance, but closer than many other people would realize. In the tower, where there was an attractive glowing ball of light, lived a little princess who was the most beautiful in the world. And then in the other, high up in the sky, there lived a little boy who wished above all the toys and all the candies in the world, that he could come and touch that light."

There were different points of the story when he caught the glances between Chuck and Blair, times at which Blair would lean down and whisper an addendum in her son's ear, points during which Chuck would tag a joke that Harold could tell eased his own tension of remembrance. It still surprised him how Chuck had agreed to a children's book that so obviously took much from their lives, but knowing Blair's penchant for the fantastic he had no doubt she was instrumental in the sign off to make her a living fairy tale character.

At the end of the story, Harold placed the book back on top of the bedside table and greeted them goodnight. And then he walked over to the night light sitting by the window and switched it off.

"No need for this," he said. "Everyone's home."

And then he stepped out of the room.

Chuck walked towards the window and switched the light back on. He turned to Blair and said, "You never know who else in the city looks forward every night to this light."

Blair nodded, then looked out the window and scanned the darkness, as if she could possibly see anyone out there. "Sleep tight," she whispered to that stranger out there who may be watching her children's window. And she leaned against her prince and said, "Come on, Chuck. Leave the kids to their dreams."

Above all else, the princess wanted happiness and the prince wanted love. So they would lie together in bed, wake together, and live the rest of their lives together. Once upon they had nothing and tonight they had everything.

So leave the kids to the nighttime, the light that sat upon the window and all their dreams. After all, the Dark Prince and the Fairy Princess sure fulfilled theirs—

Splendidly.

Fantastically.

And—just looking at the products of their love sleeping peacefully under their fleece blankets—quite, quite beautifully.

fin


End file.
